


Hard Secrets

by scarletcougar



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Drama, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 28,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletcougar/pseuds/scarletcougar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trials and tribulations of two friends who have grown together and been driven apart by duty and tragedy. Does time heal all wounds and reveal all truths? What secrets are sealed in silence and bound by trust? When you see the great eagle soaring, can you see how broken the wings of its soul are? Assassins endure in the shadows and fly the moment they are seen. The eagle mates for life and soars solo and lonely when its mate is lost till its body and soul dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Altair's Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing of Assassin's Creed but I deeply appreciate the imaginative inspiration that Ubisoft and my friends that work there have given me.
> 
> Originally on FF.net but now, I edit and move it here so I may get reacquainted with it and finish it.
> 
> Art that inspired this chapter: http://luulala.deviantart.com/art/Which-Never-Comes-Back-139928886

Crouched high above the city of Jerusalem, the amber eyes of the eagle gaze out. It let out a sorrowful cry before it took flight and circled the tower of its perch as the wind blew at white robes. Altaïr peered down across the city, his hood shading his amber eyes, hiding the truth. The pile of hay seemed so far below. It was always a leap of faith when he dove from the ledge and trusted that his landing would be soft. He never missed... except that once when his leap of faith was more metaphorical and he questioned the master of the order, Al Mualim. He banished all thought and memory as he leapt. God would give him a soft landing if he was to continue, death if not. He surrendered to the wind.

Brushing bits of hay from his robes, he walked away one more time from the impossible drop. A woman with a clay pot on her head yelped in shock and dropped her pot with a crash.

_Hide in plain sight. Be unseen. Become one with the crowd._

Altaïr smoothly dipped his shoulder as he slid invisibly between two people in the growing crowd, eyes locked on a thug farther ahead. Each step drew him closer to the small blades at the back of the man's waist. His fingers flitted out and nicked three throwing knives to complete his own set. He turned with a single step into shadows and was again gone from view. A swift leap brought him to the protruding stones of a building in a darkened corner. Moments later he stood unnoticed on the roof. A flutter of white and red fabric and Altaïr flew from ledge to ledge, roof to roof, across beams and vine covered lattices till he almost skidded upon the smooth stones of the Jerusalem Bureau. His heart pounding hard as he stared at the trickling water of a fountain in the open air room below. The sharp scratching of Malik's quill almost made Altaïr step away. He stood long as he thought through his last orders from Master Al Mualim.

_Be unseen..._

Altaïr wished he could be invisible to Malik. Yet, at the same time he wished deeply to be seen... truly seen. But that was long gone with the life of Malik's brother, Kadar, and Malik's left arm... gone as was any trust or friendship that was between them.

_Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent._

_Who is innocent? Does this target deserve death? What is the purpose? Why hunt these specific men? What is this... piece of Eden._ So many questions that Altaïr needed answers to, but to ask was risky. He wanted someone to know, to believe in him, his doubts and concerns. Would Malik? Not likely.

Altaïr sank down to crouch on his haunches by the opening in the roof.

_Never compromise the Brotherhood._

Since he mysteriously died at Al Mualim's hand and was revived and stripped of rank, every step he took seemed to. Altaïr was not sure why he felt that way. However, in his bones he knew. Each targeted death revealed more of the hidden truth, but not enough. Each death now was as his first strange few with a moment stopped in time and shrouded in fog where the dying soul spoke to his own. A gift? A curse? He told Malik once of this and soon learned to bury and hide the ability.

_Ever wonder, Malik? Ever doubt your duty? Ever wonder... if your duty is not in accord with the Creed? Ever think that maybe Al Mualim is wrong... mistaken?_

He asked that once when he was a teen. Malik laughed. Another teen told him he was crazy. He now calls Al Mualim Master... just Master. He does his duty and tries not to question. To question or to fail had dire consequences. Death... would be a blessing compared to the punishments. You lived by the code. You obeyed the Master. You did your duty.

Altaïr clenched his jaw and watched the sun set at last. The lamp light faded from the main Bureau room and blinked out as Malik slipped behind a secret curtain to an inner room to sleep. With a soft thud, Altaïr dropped onto the carpets below. He cupped water in his hands from the working fountain and sipped. _WHY! Why couldn't you have waited, Altaïr! WHY!? If you just waited..._ Malik's angry words in fevered fury on the healer's bed rang back into his ears. He waited patiently.

After several hours he padded silently into the main room of the Bureau. Maps in rolls littered the table and the long counter. Bottled inks lined one shelf along with many books. The dusty smell of the books and paper tugged at near forgotten memories. Altaïr closed his eyes and remembered a moment long ago. He had always hated the books and reading and writing, but loved curling on the blankets in a small room full of books with Malik and Kadar. Incense and tallow from the lamp had filled the air with the dusty scent of paper. Malik and his younger brother had discussed and debated what they read together while Altaïr pretended to ignore them. The messy in the books always boggled him, but he missed now the joy as those two brothers inadvertently shared the knowledge within the pages with him.

A light hop over the wooden gate brought Altaïr to Malik's side of the counter. He would never dare cross this barrier in the day. He no longer had the right to be so close. He laid his hand on the deceptively painted fabric that gave the illusion of a wall. A tiny push and he could peek through at Malik asleep on a bedroll on the floor, surrounded by books and maps, a tallow lamp guttering almost out of fuel. Altaïr's throat tightened and he flinched painfully away.

Malik rolled over sensing a change in the air and feeling eyes upon him. He looked toward the fabric door. His eyes narrowed with the light movement of the edge. However, Altaïr vanished into the night, taking instant flight before discovery, remaining unseen.

 


	2. Malik's Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by doubleleaf and the inspiration for this chapter: http://doubleleaf.deviantart.com/art/moonlight-144088324
> 
> Fanart drawn for this fanfic belongs to AngelOfThyNightmare: http://angelofthynightmare.deviantart.com/art/Broken-and-Bitter-326066852 (I AM SO HONORED!)

Malik rolled over sensing a change in the air and feeling eyes upon him. He looked toward the fabric door. His eyes narrowed with the light movement of the edge. However, Altaïr vanished into the night, taking instant flight before discovery, remaining unseen.

It was almost a year since the incident at Solomon’s Temple. His fury at Altaïr’s arrogance and later abandonment had faded along with the fiery pain of the loss of his arm and the anguish at the loss of his little brother. And then there were moments like this where Altaïr invaded his private space without warning and didn’t even bother to stay and say why. His anger stirred and he tried to shove it aside. Altaïr was like an irritating stray cat that came and went of its own will expecting food and safety, yet remained too aloof and twitchy to be approachable. Maybe not a cat but more like the true wild eagles you tried to tame, untrusting and untrustworthy. They were just as apt to hunt for you as they were to hunt you. Malik wondered what Altaïr was doing.

He heaved a sigh and stood. Altaïr was never around long enough for Malik to gentle himself or welcome him. The verbal banter between them always ended badly and left Malik abandoned in the Bureau alone, again. They had bantered verbally all their lives, but once past the initial rash words there had been camaraderie. They were two wilful and strong-minded individuals. It bothered him to see Altaïr skittish and passively obedient. Malik sometimes wanted to tell him openly that he forgave him for what happened, but Altaïr was locked up tighter than an iron box with no hinges and never stayed long enough to hear it.

Dressed only in light pants, his shoulder gently bandaged against potential chafing, Malik walked through the curtain to the main room and scanned the dim moonlit room. He was expecting Altaïr from the message bird he had received from Al Mualim. To the empty air he whispered, “Safety and peace Altaïr. Safety and peace.” He wanted to try this time, really try, to not fight with Altaïr. Malik had heard things today from a chatty novice that reminded him to the chatty rafiq in Damascus. These rumours he heard disturbed him… deeply.

_“And then Yusef told me all about what happened. Altaïr was hero and traitor all in one day. It didn’t make sense to me. How can you be both? He saved Masyaf, saved us all. I overheard one of the basket weavers saying that he ran out alone into the city to fight the templars just to give the people a chance to get within the safety of the fort walls. And then he did a leap of faith out the back tower! I can’t wait to learn that!! They say he leapt to his death and yet there he stood. I saw it myself! He stood in the lookout watching the logs crush Robert’s army. He released the trap. He was a TRUE HERO. But others say he’s a traitor. They say he lead Robert right to us, broke the Creed, all three edicts! And before you were healed enough to go, they executed him in front of all the brothers. I don’t know what sorcery brought him back to life. But there he is, stripped of rank! Once I learn the leap of faith, I will be the same rank as he! Do you still hate him? Did he really abandon you? I can see why he’d be a traitor and stripped for it. Hamal, I traveled part way with him, told me he’d take a feather for Altaïr just for you.” The youth leaned on the counter, uncouth and unafraid to bluntly ask things that would normally be impolite, “Does it still hurt? I’ve never been hurt before much past scrapes and bruises from training.”_

Malik had to shove food at the teen to quiet him. Then he sent him on an errand to find some information. He concluded with sending the lad to Damascus to train further there. The rumours though dug in his gut. The boy would never know how much he revealed. Malik’s critical mind had already picked apart the boy’s words and analyzed their implications.

Months ago, Malik would have agreed that Altaïr was a traitor and when confronted with those rumours didn’t bother to correct them. As time passed though, he knew there was nothing Altaïr could have done save beat his fists bloody against crumbled rock and never get through to save him and Kadar. Malik also knew who really lead Robert back to Masyaf. He traced a line on a map in the dim room swallowing that guilt. Altaïr was taking the blame for him and not fighting it for whatever reason as he normally would have, as he should have. Altaïr saved Malik that disgrace and shouldering it himself. He still broke the Creed, his arrogance still ended Kadar’s life, but some things were not his fault. Malik understood that now that he had a year to ponder it. His question was why. Why did Altaïr act against the Creed? What was that golden ball? Why was it worth doing literally anything for? The question that bothered him more, one he never dared voice was… What were Altaïr’s orders from Al Mualim? Altaïr seemed to still be following them, though now in silent foggy shrouds of secrecy that seemed to poison him slowly.

_Malik? Ever doubt your duty? Ever wonder if Al Mualim is wrong… mistaken? Ever wonder if what we are doing is actually against the Creed?_

Malik paced to the open air room and looked up through the lattice hoping to see Altaïr crouching there. Altaïr was but a teen with a wild reckless grin, fearlessly throwing himself into his training. Malik wondered what changed him, something had. And now again, apparently Al Mualim executed Altaïr and revived him again, changing him further. He clenched his one fist, “Altaïr, if you are up there… get your arrogant ass down here where the archers won’t pick you off! I don’t want to have to get the next novice who comes in here to scrape your corpse from the roof. You’ll be reeking by the time the next novice comes through here!” He listened, already regretting his tone which did not seem to invite nor give a sense of safety or peace.

Sighing he set out a small tray of food. Altaïr usually never ate before riding anywhere by horse. To do so seemed to always make him vomit on route. He scanned the walls and floor carefully in case there was blood traces to indicate that Altaïr was wounded. Relieved somehow that his one link to what was somewhat family, albeit broken and bitter, was unharmed as far as he could tell. Malik thought to himself that Altaïr was a true hero for Masyaf. Few knew Altaïr’s total phobia of water. To take the leap off the back tower in Masyaf was to risk dropping into the river. To get from there to the lookout tower for the trap meant crossing not one but two long narrow planks over a hundred foot drop to the river below, followed by an almost sheer climb up the lookout wall at the edge of the cliff over that river. Then, to accept such a blow to his pride as to be stripped totally down to being a novice, willingly. Why did he do it? Malik gave one last peek up through the lattice at the empty night sky.

What bothered Malik most was the idea that a Brother of the Order would kill one of their own. Brothers of the Order were willing to take a feather out on Altaïr even though he was struggling slowly along a hard path to redemption. Altaïr went from prodigy to nothing to awaiting an assassin’s mark from people he should be able to trust. This was a rift in the Order that troubled Malik as he thought and walked back through the wood gate and the curtain into his private back room. He carefully tidied the maps and scrolls and books there, listening till he heard the soft thud on the carpets. Altaïr must have waited till he was out of sight to enter. Nothing but water scared Altaïr before. Why was he scared now? And especially why was he scared of Malik of all people. Malik opened the curtain a tiny crack to see Altaïr carefully sniff the food and test it before actually eating.

_I am NOT about to poison you!_ Malik ground his teeth, insulted. Then he remembered his earlier train of thought. What if Altaïr knew Brothers might be out to kill him? Of all people, Malik had the most cause, no? _What is the world coming to? What are we, the Order, coming to? Yes, Altaïr, I doubt and I question. Do you still?_

The night slipped by silently. Malik struggled with his anger at Altaïr and his concerns. He paced out once more unable to actually sleep, blade in hand to practice some moves in the larger room as Altaïr slept on the cushions under the stars. On still silent feet, the only sound being the slight rustle of his robes since the night air was chill, Malik stood over Altaïr with his blade glinting in the filtered light. The moonlight spilled softly over Altaïr’s sleeping form as he gripped the pillows in twitches of some night terror. Malik whispered, “Safety and peace,” and watched as Altaïr relaxed a little. Other memories flooded his mind, but so much blood had spilled between them. Malik was not sure if he trusted Altaïr enough and was fairly certain now that Altaïr didn’t trust him. A salty drop trickled down Malik’s cheeks.

As the sky grew lighter with predawn, Malik left Altaïr to sleep in peace. He locked the main door so they could both sleep in safety, before retiring to his own room and grabbing precious few minutes of sleep for himself.


	3. Altair Hiding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying a counter relay perspective style of writing. Altaïr then Malik then Altaïr. I hope I can manage it.
> 
> Art that inspired this chapter belongs to Corrupted Mooch: http://corrupted-mooch.deviantart.com/art/Between-Missions-156425804

As the sky grew lighter with predawn, Malik left Altaïr to sleep in peace. He locked the main door so they could both sleep in safety, before retiring to his own room and grabbing precious few minutes of sleep for himself.

The sun rose to bake Altaïr’s eyelids through the lattice roof. He grumbled and scrubbed the sleep from them. His fingers ached as though he had hung all day from the ledge of a building. The pillows were practically punctured by his talon grip on them through the night. It was another terror plagued night that did not inspire any gentleness in him for the day, not that one would ever think of putting the word gentle and Altaïr together in the same sentence. He was just not. Well, not any more. Ok, not when anyone was looking and often even when they weren’t, but sometimes wanted to be. He shook the weak betraying sentiment from his head physically as he stood.

The Bureau was silent, much like the outside world, everyone still sleeping including Malik. Altaïr splashed water on his face in a rough attempt to wash and then ate the remaining food off the tray Malik had left for him, especially the meat jerky. He then filled his two small belt bottles with water for later. It always bothered him how sometimes the poor, the drunk and the crazy pissed in the fountains of the cities. He double checked the cleanliness and readiness of his various blades before tugging his hooked cowl down to shade his eyes.

In a flutter he was on the roof. There he crouched and scanned for danger. Rooftop archers were distant, the bureau safe. Safe. As much as he felt Malik hated him, Altaïr felt more comfortable here than anywhere. He frowned at the feeling. It bode ill of the other Bureau’s, especially that of Damascus. It also bode ill of Masyaf, which should feel like… home.

His eagle sharp vision tracked the circling shadow and soon the circling golden bird of prey. Its perch was his next destination. Muscles tensed a moment then he took flight across the roofs. He flew across a wide gap between buildings. He dashed over crates. He skidded around a corner as his wrist blade pinned an archer to the ground through the throat. He flew again leaping to grip the grill of a window on the spire of his destination. Hand over hand he climbed. At the perch he hung as the eagle landed to eye him warily. It spread its wings and cried out its indignation as it again circled the spire. Altaïr pulled himself onto the perch envying the eagle’s freedom.

The now noon sun beat down upon him while he debated his next move. He stood to take a leap of faith, adrenalin already speeding his heart rate. A ripple of red and white fabric betrayed a Templar flag. Fury rose in Altaïr and he ground his teeth restraining a growl. He changed his direction and inched his way down the spire, glancing frequently at his new target, that baneful flag. _How dare the Templars lay such claims!_ He bounced off the side of the spire to land and roll on a roof, over to neatly drop between the walls of balconies to the hated flag. There he ripped it ferociously from the wooden beam it was nailed to. With a knife he shredded it, venting some of his hate and loathing, wishing it was Robert’s throat. That man, ruined his life… ruined the lives of the only people he truly cared anything for. His blade bit into his palm before he realized there was no more flag, just threading and shreds. He examined the wound and concluded it was inconsequential.

Altaïr roamed aimlessly through the streets of Jerusalem for hours, listening to the gossip. His gut still churned with hatred. Though now he no longer was sure who he loathed more, Robert or himself. It was his own arrogance, his own belief that he was so good he was above the Creed, that got Kadar killed and lost Malik his arm. The sun was setting and he was no closer to news of his intended target. He dipped his hand into a clean-looking fountain to wash the blood from it and ease the sting of the cuts. Should he return to the Bureau? He needed guidance, but would Malik actually offer it? He had never really… asked… for help before. His stomach flipped thinking about Malik and he decided not to return to the Bureau. It was starting to get late. He nibbled a handful of dates he stole on his walk and drank the water from one of his small bottles.

A beggar invaded his personal space demanding money. He tried to shove her aside. She was insistent. He was not in the mood. He never really was, but less so now. He grabbed her shoulder and pushed her roughly away. She tumbled and screamed and ran. Altaïr stepped into a shadow invisibly till his temper calmed. As he turned he saw a ladder conveniently there. He climbed it as darkness descended on Jerusalem. On this roof was a small covered balcony. He hopped inside and flopped onto the dusty warn hay there. The fabric roof and panels were so forgotten and worn that it revealed the stars and moon through the thinning weaves. He chose to sleep there, unable to face Malik this night.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing two OC's here. They are relatively minor. Please be patient with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspired by SIRbluemoustache's art: http://sirbluemoustache.deviantart.com/art/ac-request-strong-ones-wins-146454553

Altaïr chose to sleep hidden in a roof garden balcony, unable to face Malik this night.

Malik yelled in frustration in the empty fountain room. Altaïr had left before they could speak, before they could exchange news and information about the mission Al Mualim assigned. He kicked over the empty food tray. It clattered coldly against the stone wall. “Altaïr! You arrogant… Prideful…You son of…” Malik let his breath out in a huff realizing the insult of finishing that curse. Son of No One… a cruel curse to inflict on anyone, and yet it was what Altaïr’s last name translated to. He was furious with Altaïr for leaving. “You think you know what you are doing. You always ignore the protocol. Do you still think yourself above the Creed?!” When he realized he was yelling at no one, he kicked the tray again for good measure before picking it up and dropping it into a basin to wash later.

He squinted into the sunlight and returned to the main room. At some point, Altaïr would have to return. Malik needed to open his Bureau and look like a scribe and cartographer to the public. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his maps onto table, thumped the wood or stone blocks onto corners, and thudded books into shelves. He almost broke an ink bottle when it hit the table from the force of his frustration. There he urged himself to calm. Ink was expensive, not just financially, but also bodily. He hated going to the market and allowing the thugs and guards to pick on the crippled scribe. His cover grated on his pride… as did Altaïr. Today’s anger recalled all the original pain and sense of betrayal.

It was an hour or three before he came to terms with exactly how he felt. He was angry mostly that he never really got the opportunity to talk to Altaïr. He felt alone, far from home and not allowed back, with no family left. And, every time he reached in any way out to Altaïr it came out wrong, bitter, and ended with Altaïr fleeing. Malik sighed missing their friendship, even if their childhood was rife with small battles. It was also rife with small moments of unforgettable bonding.

Malik set out a medical book with details of anatomy on the desk to study from. It was stolen from the Hospitalier that Altaïr assassinated months ago and manifested here mysteriously. He never questioned it though. Medicine was a secret passion of his. Although he barely read the page before him as he drifted into daydream, remembering some of his early encounters with Altaïr.

_Altaïr was brought before the assassins of the Order and the other young recruits. He was such a strange boy with his fair skin and light brown hair. Even his eyes were strange, not brown, lighter, almost golden like an eagle’s. Malik was ten years old standing with his elder brother, Faruq, another assassin who was also an excellent doctor and was likely going to be removed from Assassin duty soon for that very reason. Altaïr was barely eight years old, thin, and a bruised mess. The story was that his mother was a Christian from a foreign land and his father was a Muslim from Acre. Both were killed in some attack and Altaïr alone had survived. Al Mualim introduced the boy as Altaïr Ibn-la-Ahad, flying eagle and son of no one. He was too young really to be put among the ranks of the new recruits like Malik, but considering the circumstances there was little choice. Al Mualim had in a sense adopted him and placed him as Malik’s partner to share a room and all other things, learn the ways of Brotherhood and the Order. Altaïr was a quiet introverted child even then, one with so much fight in him, angry at the world._

_He and Altaïr fought over everything in those first few months. They argued lots, tumbled aggressively, and destroyed their small shared room. Altaïr never would study or read when Malik was determined to be the best in all things. However, even at such a young age, Altaïr excelled at the physical lessons, even the disagreeable ones. In the practice ring, with others watching, Al Mualim instructed the children on wrestling. “The strong one always wins. In a fight, be the one to walk away.” Altaïr would then abandon grace and polite fighting in order to win, pulling Malik’s hair and behaving almost like a feral cat. And yet, later in the night, Malik would find Altaïr sitting beside him watching over him as he slept. “Promise me, Malik… Promise not to leave me?” The anger of the day would evaporate then and Malik would pull Altaïr down to sleep with him. “I will always be your friend Altaïr. Always. I promise.”_

_ _

Malik pinched the bridge of his nose and abandoned the medical text, stuffing it under the counter among the other hidden boxes of feathers clean and bloodied. Just in time too, as a young girl of fifteen walked in guarded by her older brother. She was the veiled daughter of an apothecary merchant. Her father sold medicines and other alchemical substances. The girl smiled prettily, her eyes taking in the whole room before she entered, glancing even in the direction of the sunny room with the fountain for just a second. “Rafiq, I have brought you something new. Oh, and something usual.” Malik could not help but be endeared to her eagerness. He rolled his map to give room on the counter for her to place her basket. “I brought you some mint essence. It will cool the water and the body. Just add some drops to a jug of water or into a bath basin. But you know that already.” She almost bounced on her toes as she brought out a wide flat jar. “Here. This is a salve, for your arm. I bet it hurts sometimes.” Malik didn’t know what to say. She simply smiled. “My father would like if you could send him a map of Acre. He is going there to secure a boat to export some of his wares. We missed you at our stall or he would have asked you then. So I figured… I thought maybe you were unwell, so I brought these over myself and offered to pass his request directly. Is there anything else you need?” This girl, this especially bold girl was very perceptive and attentive. Although, she was the sixth daughter in a family with eight children, her being the youngest of them all.

“Thank you, Tibah. Please extend my thanks to your family. I will have a map for your father in a week.” Malik pondered a moment wondering if he dared ask, and decided to toss caution aside. “Tibah, there is in fact something I do need. There are often bandits and thugs who are rough. It has been hard to keep apprentices with me for this reason. Maybe, could you please supply me with a goodly amount of bandaged and basic medicines? I could use a more full kit to offer to care for my apprentices and aides. Then maybe they would not abandon me so swiftly.” It was part lie and part truth. It would have to do.

Tibah tilted her head almost coyly, her hair coming a little loose of the scarf she wore. She tucked it back into place. This was a look Malik knew, the look of transaction. She was going to name her price and he wasn’t sure he was going to like it. “Of course… in exchange for,” here it came as she glances back to her brother at the door and whispered, “for your trust. For your trust, I will keep you well supplied. And for… a service exchange later that I cannot name at the moment.”

These were both VERY high prices for Malik. He simply nodded feeling like he cornered himself in a trap and worried what this would mean later. However, he needed those supplies too badly. The last novice and mentor who passed through the Bureau, nearly died for lack of them. Malik had a reputation of not losing the life of a single wounded assassin who took refuge in his presence.

“Very good! I will see you soon with everything.” With that she turned and walked out greeting her brother on the way out.

Malik overheard her brother chastise her, “If you be bold like that all the time, you will insult every man in the city and father will never find you a husband! I hope the rafiq was not offended.”


	5. Altair's Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder how Altair got his scar? I know I have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone drew art for this chapter! Thanks letyumino: http://scarletcougar.deviantart.com/art/The-Scar-202286875

Malik overheard Tibah’s brother chastise her, “If you be bold like that all the time, you will insult every man in the city and father will never find you a husband! I hope the rafiq was not offended.”

Few people truly offended Malik. Actually... Altaïr seemed to be the only one who really did. Less so now that he saw so little of him. He was missing the feeling of being offended by Altaïr, especially knowing he was in the city somewhere that night.

The sparse layer of hey smelled of mould and found its way through Altaïr’s robes to itch his skin. He tossed and turned waking often throughout the night. His mind plagued him with the chaos of his recent kills. The memories poisoned him into doubt. His worldview used to be so clear, so black and white. _But nothing is true and everything is permitted._ Now it was clouded in shades of grey, as stormy as a rainy season sky.

Rolling over yet again in the prickly hay, the feeling coaxed out old memories. Maybe that part of his life never happened, maybe it was just a dream. Maybe if he told himself often enough it would be true. _But nothing is true and everything is permitted._ Reality blurred.

_The life of an assassin is a hard one. Assassins are trained to endure, to be strong, to be the best. Swift, deadly, and silent. Altaïr and Malik crouched in a hay stack trying not to move or scratch where the bits of hay poked at them through their training clothes. At ten, Altaïr was already surpassing twelve year old Malik in all the physical training, pushed and almost favoured by the head of the Order, Al Mualim. Altaïr often felt that Malik was jealous of his skill, even though Malik would always be Altaïr’s better in anything that involved study, reading, mathematics, or philosophy. Altaïr was not interested in the messy on the pages of the books or the confusing debates and discussions of morals. He preferred knowing his task and accomplishing it. His disregard of the book and discussion studies often resulted in Altaïr often breaking the rules to achieve the desired goal. The strong always win. Nothing is true and everything is permitted. The rules were restrictive and sometimes hindered success. Yet, partnered with Malik tempered Altaïr. Malik was his moral compass, his true friend. Altaïr believed that to at least be absolutely true. As potentially dangerous as Altaïr could be as a child, Malik managed to gentle him. In the hay, they took hands as a reminder of this friendship, even though they were to race to a goal as rivals today._

_“RUN!!” yelled their trainer who stood with Al Mualim and other assassins and trainees of differing ages and stages. Both boys abandoned their hold on each other and bolted out of the hay on one of the roofs of Masyaf. The run was to take them across a natural obstacle course of roofs to a flag target. Small feet kicked up dust as they ran. They climbed. They leapt small gaps between buildings. They rushed around posts. Pushing each other here and there to try to be the one ahead. Altaïr was fast. Malik was smart. Yet Altaïr seemed to earn the praise for his successes. Malik’s jealousy sometimes ended in a brawl in their shared room. Altaïr suspected it would be the same today. He intended to win this... again. Altaïr almost flew over crates, leaping with arms spread like wings. He clung to ledges, pulled himself up, and leapt fearlessly across wider gaps, heedless of danger. His eye was on the goal, especially with Al Mualim watching._

_Malik dove through a small roof garden’s curtains to gain extra distance on Altaïr, the route more familiar to him. He had taken the time to study it and map it in his head. He passed Altaïr with a grin, and then shoved him into a line of drying clothes. Altaïr lost his temper as usual, snarling as he disentangled himself. He fumed at the trainer’s praise of Malik’s tactic. Al Mualin yelled from below and Altaïr launched after Malik, close on his heels. A reckless pounce and he pinned Malik to the roof, then kept running. The surprise attack slammed Malik’s face into stone and knocked out a tooth. At Malik’s outcry of pain, Altaïr skidded to a halt and turned back to his friend. Al Mualim yelled, “Altaïr! Leave him! RUN! He is the enemy today! Leave him!” But Altaïr seemed rooted where he stood weighing the right and wrong of this in his head, struggling with Al Mualim’s orders and his own private promise with Malik to never leave each other. Malik was always taking care of Altaïr. Now he needed care._

_Pain and betrayal flashed in Malik’s eyes. Altaïr murmured and apology as he turned and hopped off the roof calling for Faruq. Malik wept into his arms at his failure, at both their failures. Altaïr thought he was doing the right thing as he watched Faruq climb the building and tend to his sibling there._

_Al Mualim gripped Altaïr’s shoulder and almost dragged him back into the main fortress and into a private room. “What the hell happened up there?! No, don’t tell me. I know. You disobeyed another order. You cannot keep disregarding things like this Altaïr. Will you never learn?!” Al Mualim walked back and forth as he spoke, hands behind his back. “You are training to be an assassin, the best assassin. I know you can be. Assassins are fast, strong, and cannot afford to fall prey to weaknesses of blood. We draw blood. We bleed. We ignore the pain and finish our task.” Al Mualim turned to face Altaïr who was intently studying his toes. “So Malik fell. I ordered you to keep running. If he were the enemy, you could be dead! You all must learn that when one falls, the other must keep going, or the mission might fail and you both might end up dead, Altaïr.” Al Mualim lifted Altaïr’s chin to glare into the golden eyes. “You must abandon fear. Wounds mean nothing, Altaïr. Malik knows this. Must I teach it to you myself?!” At Altaïr’s stoic silence, Al Mualim pounded the lesson into him. If young Altaïr yelled or cried, he was stuck again till he learned to take the pain in silent acceptance. This went on well past dinner._

_Malik had continued his training alone that day, angry at Altaïr and the shame of failing, especially when other boys teased him about it. Altaïr missed dinner, having stayed in the privileged private room of Al Mualim. Malik seethed and as he returned to their shared little room, he planned to punch out one of Altaïr’s teeth just to make things even. Altaïr was sitting in the corner, gripping a pillow in his hands tightly. Shock widened Malik’s eyes when he forced Altaïr to look at him. His angry words were forgotten at the scene before him. There was so much blood. Altaïr was shaking slightly and seeing the shock in Malik’s eyes drove the tears out of his own, though he dared not make a single noise. Blood crusted on his face and neck, soaked his shirt. It still oozed from purple bruised places and especially the swollen gash on the right side of his mouth. Had he moved his lips at all, the upper and lower cut through his face would split open to show his teeth._

_ _

_Altaïr watched Malik almost numbly as the other soaked a thin summer shirt in water from a jug and pressed it to his wounded face. Malik made Altaïr hold it in place. Questions were plain on Malik’s face, but he only got silence for an answer. Altaïr followed Malik’s movements with his eyes as the older boy left the room to fetch his big brother. Faruq was easily ten years older than Malik and acted as much like a father to the two younger siblings as he could in place of their own who was gone already dead from a mission. Their mother died birthing Kadar, who desperately wanted to join the training and was told he had to wait yet another couple years. All three brothers had grey eyes, Faruq’s were a medium grey, Malik’s a dark charcoal with brown hints, and Kadar’s lighter grey tinted blue. Like Malik, Faruq’s questioning eyes received silence from Altaïr._

_Altaïr remained silent even through Faruq neatly stitching his face. Any other boy of ten would have screamed and cried from the experience. Altaïr merely dug his fingers talon-like into the pillow in his lap. Faruq gently washed the blood away from Altaïr’s face and instructed Malik on how to help Altaïr care for the wounds. Malik loved learning, and especially medicine, history, lore and geography. Medicine would be useful later... well now actually. For Altaïr, everything in his body hurt, but he learned Al Mualim’s lesson well. And Malik would care for his wounds gently in the privacy of their shared room._

Altaïr moaned and tossed again, banging his face into the wall and waking suddenly to the jab of a stick in his side. A dagger in his hand ready to fend off an attacker before full wakefulness cleared his thoughts and vision. Groaning, he dragged his sleep deprived body from his hiding place.  He felt filthy like the poor of Acre. He spent the morning slinking around the poor district of Jerusalem and into the rich district. The sky was painted hues of orange and purple with the setting sun. Altaïr bumped tiredly into a guard who shoved him and yelled for him to leave that place. Altaïr steered away toward the markets, stomach complaining loudly. He dipped his burning hand into the fountain there.

A girl of fifteen from one of the stalls came up to him and said hello several times till he finally warily acknowledged her. “Hello. Here, you seem to need this.” She gave him a fruit. Her brother hovered protectively behind her. Altaïr glimpsed the young man who had a flicker of a grin as he nodded to a friend of his watching from another stall. Altaïr envied the two men and their easy friendship. He accepted the fruit from the girl and mumbled a thank you. She smiled pleasantly. “My name is Tibah. You don’t have to pay me,” she said as he was fumbling into a pouch. “Just... remember the kindness and offer that kindness to someone else who might need it later.” She then left with her brother to finish packing up their stall for the night. Altaïr nibbled the fruit thoughtfully. His head ached with the moral questions of her actions and the knowledge that invaded.

Later, he dropped almost gracelessly through the roof lattice into the Bureau and dropped onto the pillows there with exhaustion. From where he lay, he could see Malik still working on a map, bent over the counter and purposely ignoring him. Altaïr crossed his arms and rested his chin on them.


	6. Malik Watches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has no art... but if there is art for it... or if someone draws art for it... I will post it in.

Altaïr dropped almost gracelessly through the roof lattice into the Bureau and flopped onto the pillows there with exhaustion. From where he lay, he could see Malik still working on a map, bent over the counter and purposely ignoring him. Altaïr crossed his arms and rested his chin on them.

Two days of wondering and Malik was certain that Altaïr was doing this on purpose. “This” was Altaïr’s tendency to not follow orders of report into the Bureau as he should. Malik crunched a feather quill in irritation at Altaïr’s apparent disregard for his position and responsibility. Earlier, a novice and mentor were present to notice this irritation.  At their delicate query, Malik snarled out Altaïr’s name as if it explained every frustration in Malik’s life. “Want that we hunt him for you?” asked the mentor with a wicked grin. Malik felt ice race down his spine and cool his temper. He declined the offer and suggested the two train in the quiet poor district. The fact that a mentor was quick to suggest hunting Altaïr worried Malik. Brothers should not hunt Brothers, especially one’s like Altaïr on a mission who could lose sight of friend from foe and kill you anyways because you are between him and his target.

Malik paced. Malik locked the door. Malik paced some more. Worry mixed with anger... anger at worrying and anger at being made to worry. _If only Altaïr would just follow the damned rules!_   When Altaïr finally did drop into the Bureau after dark, Malik was in a ripe sour mood. He broke two quills scratching out the lines of the new map of Acre for the apothecary merchant. Altaïr didn’t even greet him with the customary saying, or any saying at all. He just sprawled on the carpets and pillows. Malik refused to acknowledge him until he did.

He finished the base sketching of the map and put away his quills and ink. Still ignoring Altaïr, Malik came around the counter and drew a short knife to do some training of his own with. He didn’t want to be out of form, just in case. He had this sense, like ants on his skin, that something terrible was coming and he needed to be ready for it. As he trained he ranted about his days out loud. He often did this while alone in his Bureau. The walls never cared. Altaïr’s silence made it easy to forget he was there.

“There are extra guards on watch for some reason in the poor district.” Altaïr’s husky comment caused Malik to stumble mid-swing. “I’ll find them and direct them to a safer training area. Mentors and novices should be training in Masyaf, not out here.”

Malik didn’t think Altaïr was even listening to his ranting. He eyed the prone figure and sheathed his knife.

“Safety and peace, rafiq.”

Malik answered the greeting, “Safety and peace, Altaïr.” He approached and saw how the man on the carpets looked haggard, blood smeared on his white assassin’s robe, which were filthy and still showed bits of hay clinging to the hems. Malik brought over a large basin and wash cloths. “Don’t soil my fountain with your filth.” He then brought over a towel with which Altaïr could dry himself. “Are you hungry?” Altaïr grunted that he was fine as he dipped his head and hid in the shadow of his hood. Malik didn’t believe him. Altaïr was always hungry, so he stepped into the back private area and retrieved a bowl of left-over stew and set that too on the floor. “There are clean clothes in the trunk by the chess table.” Malik wanted to yell biting words about protocol and preach at him the rules he should be following, but he saw how Altaïr looked and it was not good. He leaned in the doorway and watched critically as Altaïr removed his armour and weapons. This haggard man was going to refuse food and sleep and help another Brother and a novice? Malik was realizing how much Altaïr had changed. And yet how much he had not, still recklessly running off and saying he was fine when clearly he was not. He frowned, thinking of Altaïr’s words and knowing them to be right. Novice training was never outside Masyaf before.

Altaïr tugged off his cowl and sash and robes, peeled off his shirt and pants and underclothes, dropping them in a tangled heap. Malik rolled his eyes knowing he’d be stuck washing them. There were many more scars on Altaïr’s body than Malik last recalled, some more recent than others and showed Altaïr’s poor skills of self-mending. Malik studied the body’s movements, looking for signs of weakness or tight muscles from poor healing, favouring of certain movement to ease the pain of strains or ignored breaks. Altaïr always ignored his wounds and endured them in silence. He watched as Altaïr filled the basin with water from the fountain. Malik was sensitive to Altaïr’s phobia of water that extended so far that he would not even sit in a bath. Altaïr never looked up at Malik during this whole time, never met his eyes. Before the incident at Solomon’s Temple, the two would glare challenges at each other, sometimes just for fun. Now... where was Altaïr’s inner fire?

“Uniforms are like feather’s Altaïr, they are not easily acquired. You need to take better care of the one you have.” Malik bent and collected the soiled clothing to pile with others that needed cleaning or mending from other assassins who had been through here in the last couple weeks. Altaïr remained silent save for the sounds of washing. Malik returned with salve and a bandage for the wound he spotted on Altaïr’s hand. “And, you only get one body. I can’t replace that,” Malik found himself chastising Altaïr.

Those golden eagle eyes glanced at him and swiftly away again, unable to hide in the hood since he was nude. Malik reached for the wounded hand. Altaïr jerked away, “I am fine.”

“Stop lying to me, Altaïr.” Malik pointed to the clearly cut and angry red hand. His tone was harsher and snappish, not what he intended. The muscles in Altaïr’s jaw clenched as he relented and held his hand out to Malik. _I will not hurt you. It is my job to heal you on your missions._ He treated the cuts on Altaïr’s palm with skilled gentle fingers and wrapped it. Altaïr was tense like an eagle ready for flight. Had Altaïr not been naked and bathing, Malik was certain Altaïr would have fled again. He wondered what happened to Altaïr to change him. This was not the first time he wondered this. The first was when Altaïr earned that scar on his lip. The most he discovered was that Altaïr received a punishment and a lesson from Al Mualim. _Some things... are not permitted, Altaïr. And some things, like my promise to you, are true._ Malik could not bring himself to voice his thoughts. He tried to express them in his actions. _Be an example to others, for they are always watching._ That was a lesson from his elder brother, Faruq, when they both caught little Kadar spying on the training.

Once dressed, Altaïr ate the stew and left the Bureau on his task, the one that was not Al Mualim’s. Malik cursed extensively at the mess left behind that now he had to clean. Although, Malik hoped Altaïr found the mentor and novice, alive. He also hoped Altaïr would return. Altaïr needed sleep, needed proper rest to safely accomplish the missions Al Mualim set him to, missions that were increasingly more dangerous. He fingered the slip of paper from the pigeon with Al Mualim’s note. _The Eagle is coming for the Regent._


	7. Altair & the Novice

Altaïr needed sleep, needed proper rest to safely accomplish the missions Al Mualim set him to, missions that were increasingly more dangerous. Malik fingered the slip of paper from the pigeon with Al Mualim’s note.

_The Eagle is coming for the Regent._

Altaïr was not sure why he was delaying so much. Maybe it was because of Malik. Maybe it was because he was beginning to doubt his missions and the Master. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. The night air was blessedly chill and helping keep him awake. Malik was right... again... Altaïr needed decent sleep badly. However, it was not likely to happen tonight. A mentor and novice were out where archers were likely to pick them off. It made no sense to him why they would train outside Masyaf.

He pulled himself up to a higher section of wall look across the dark city. He flexed his injured hand to feel the neat bandage under the leather of his fingerless glove. It still hurt, but much less. Malik had cared for it much more gently than Altaïr had expected, like when they were younger. A sharp pain twinged in his chest and he took a deep breath to ease it. Malik had remembered he was afraid of water and did not try to get him to take a bath in a tub. Malik had even watched him bathe. Altaïr wondered what Malik was thinking. A few years ago, the watching would have been very welcome, an open invitation for something more. Now, Altaïr thought that perhaps Malik was studying him for the best way to kill him in vengeance. _It is no less than I deserve. Nine lives to take to redeem myself in the eyes of the Order, nine lives for my own. That is what the Master said. But how do I redeem myself in Malik’s eyes? Can I ever do that?_

He sighed and launched to another building to begin his hunt. Night hunting was actually not one of Altaïr’s favourite things. He preferred to hunt in the day. No one expects an assassin in broad daylight. Also, there were even more guards roaming the streets and roofs at night. It made hunting tedious for all the dodging and extra caution. Altaïr pressed his back against a wall and peered around the corner at three archers on the same roof as he. He cursed in his head. There were a few times he thought he was caught when calls went up about intruders or assassins. Sometimes he though those he sought were caught, but he never found evidence of it when he reached the commotion. He was out of throwing knives now too with no means of pick-pocketing more till sometime during the day. He sneered and ground his teeth. This was almost futile. He was tired and growing totally impatient. He took a moment to acknowledge this along with his state and compartmentalize it, then burying it. He was on a mission.

It was a bit odd to be saving lives instead of taking them. It reminded him of the solo mission he was on before the Solomon Temple tragedy. It was his first failed mission in triplicate. _He lost the Sacred Chalice. He lost Adha. It was also his only secret he had kept from Master Al Mualim. When he went on the mission and came back with a woman and some news of the mission. Al Mualim had devised a further plan to obtain the Sacred Chalice and concluded that since Altaïr brought back a woman, he should wed and bed her to produce children to be raised in the Order. This was not unusual, but Altaïr was not entirely interested in the idea. Al Mualim gave him this task as his next mission before sending him back out to retrieve the Chalice. With reluctance he obeyed. He charmed Adha in his way. That he had saved her life lent well to her liking him. It was the first time he was with a woman intimately. It made things between him and Malik even more awkward. When Adha found out that Altaïr was just following an order, she was furious. She almost left him there. Instead she insisted on joining him on his mission. At first he did not know why. When he realized that Adha WAS the Sacred Chalice, it was too late. He had lost her to the enemy on a boat. His mission was a failure. He lost the Sacred Chalice. He lost a woman he was starting to maybe like despite her anger at him. He tried so hard to save her. And he lost the child she was carrying. With this failure, Master Al Mualim decided that Altaïr could not be trusted to do missions alone anymore. It was a blow to his pride. Instead, he was to work with Malik, a lower ranking assassin, and Kadar, a novice. The first mission was also the last... Solomon’s Temple._

 __  


Saving lives was not one of Altaïr’s strong points. It irritated him when people apologized for the loss of Adha. It irritated him more that Brothers in the order let him know they were still looking for Adha. To this day, Altaïr would not say to anyone that she was the Sacred Chalice. But it was possible someone figured it out. He never wanted a woman. But the prospect of a child.... Altaïr shook his head as he realized he was daydreaming, or night dreaming, wakeful dreaming. He peeked around the corner again before slipping through the shadows to take flight off the roof down into the alley.

The sky was becoming lighter and he still had not found the mentor and novice. The near abandoned nook of an alley surprised him with the first clues. There lay two dead guards. One a broken mess tangled in his own bow; he must have been pushed off a roof. The other a bloody mess stabbed in many random inaccurate places. Altaïr shook his head at the horrible lack of skill and tisked the mentor for his sloppiness. The tisking would have been more effective if the mentor were actually there. At least this was a clue.

He followed the faintest traces of blood to... a hay stack? Rolling his eyes he searched the stack and found nothing. He returned to the two dead guards and climbed to the other building’s roof and searched there. More blood. The kills happened up there, or at least a fight of some kind. There were smears of blood into a roof hay stack. He searched that pile of hay too... and found the mentor, dead with too many arrows in him to have survived. He frowned then. _Where was the novice?_ Now he felt foolish for not getting details from Malik. He had no idea what this novice looked like, not even his age. He searched roofs, souks, hay piles those little covered garden places. His pulse rushed with more worry than he expected to have.

Altaïr slipped invisibly through the morning crowd of people to another alley and stopped to listen in on a conversation between two women that caught his attention.

“... he couldn’t have been more than ten years old... and the poor thing showed up bloody and naked on the doorstep...”

“Oh my! Whatever happened?”

“I have no idea. He was in so much shock he did not say a word. I bathed him and clothed him and gave him a place to sleep. I was going to bring him to the synagog this morning but he was gone.”

“He must have been just so scared.”

Altaïr clenched his fists feeling even more like a failure. The boy must have been caught by the guard, stripped down to ready him for prison, and bolted the second he could. Knowing the novice was only about ten would help... a little. But now there were no novice clothing to help identify him from other children. Altaïr boldly walked up to the women and placed a coin in the hand of the one who cared for the boy. “For your charity to a lost soul,” he murmured before fluidly vanishing in a group of wandering monks. The boy could be wandering dumbstruck from the shock of his mentor’s death. That alone could get him killed. Altaïr needed to find him fast and get him to Malik for proper care. The stress kept him awake and alert for now.

He scaled a ladder to look from a higher point for random children, regretting not having asked the woman what the boy was wearing. His annoyance with himself swiftly turned to inner fury. With a little reckless abandon he dropped onto a templar guarding a crate of swords. His wrist blade slid between the back plate armour and the helm into the soft neck as the ribs crunched from Altaïr landing on the man. “ASSASSIN!!!” Altaïr swore not having noticed the guards that were only a couple buildings away. Not just guards, but two more templars who were speaking with them. It was a dangerous mistake. Not having the time to clean and resheath the blade he took off at a dead sprint. Over a bench, shoving people aside, diving through a merchant stall, crashing into women carrying pots of water on their head, around sharp corners, desperately trying to lose his unexpectedly tenacious pursuers. He managed a short climb up a balcony to dash across a roof. They still gave chase. He spotted a boy sitting on a bench across the street and leapt across from his roof to the roof above the boy. His shadow was that of a low flying eagle on the cobblestones before the boy’s eyes. The boy looked up from his toy horse to see the eagle, but saw nothing, only some yelling templars and guards. They chased Altaïr another block over the rooftops. They followed him into an alley.

He skidded to a halt around the sudden corner and sat on the bench next to the boy. Leaning forward lazily, he rested his elbows on his kneed and dangled his hands between them, hiding the bloody wrist dagger from the innocent eyes of the child.

As the clanging of metal on stone thundered with stamping feet, guards ran past them. Then turned to yell for the templars to follow. As the templars ran by, the boy turned and smiled at Altaïr. He raised his toy wooden horse, “Hello,” and proceeded to bounce the horse in the air playing, or trying to, with Altaïr. The guards and templars barely glanced at them and ran on. When they were well gone, the boy then spoke again, “I am lost, can you help my find my way home?” Altaïr opened his mouth to decline, but the boy spoke again, “After that’s clean and sheathed.” He pulled a rag from the folds of his green striped scarf and handed it to Altaïr nodding toward the bloody offending wrist blade.

Altaïr took it a bit stunned. “Why the hell are you not at the Bureau?!”

“I was lost. I don’t know where it is. So I hid. I figured, I would keep trying to find it, but then I heard the yell of assassin,” he explained. “They were expecting us on the roof. They knew my mentor by name.” He looked down confused.

“You are a sloppy killer. Were those two your first?” Altaïr found himself asking gently. The boy nodded. “Alright, I am taking you back to Malik. He is the rafiq of this city’s Bureau. You tell him everything. He’ll place you with another mentor, probably, and keep you safe while you train. This mistake is not his. He didn’t know there were extra guards out on the hunt. I have spent all night looking for you.” The boy hugged Altaïr suddenly, leaving Altaïr feeling very VERY awkward.

They traveled by rooftops toward the Bureau. Altaïr instructed the boy in short curt terms what to look for, what to avoid, and how to plan a route. He then carefully lowered the boy down through the roof access to the Bureau, hoping Malik did not have any daytime customers. The boy’s foot touched the top of the fountain and he made his own way down to the ground while Altaïr dropped mostly soundlessly. They stepped into the doorway to the main room of the Bureau once Altaïr was sure only Malik was there. “The mentor is dead. Here’s the boy. I need sleep. I’ll be up in the roof shelter till later.” He then left the boy there and climbed back up for much needed sleep hidden in yet another veil covered shelter on a roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art By:
> 
> http://raccooncitizen.deviantart.com/art/The-Eagle-and-The-Chalice-212034417  
> http://sunsetagain.deviantart.com/art/yaoi-slash-death-of-Adha-256514828  
> http://doubleleaf.deviantart.com/art/hello-163564265


	8. Malik & the Novice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik’s doubts start to become firmed. Disturbing changes leave him with questions and wondering about Altaïr.

Altaïr and a thin barefooted boy in shades of green from the poor district stepped into the doorway to the main room of the Bureau once Altaïr was sure only Malik was there. “The mentor is dead. Here’s the boy. I need sleep. I’ll be up in the roof hut till later.” He then left the boy there and climbed back up for much needed sleep hidden in yet another roof hut.

The boy looked over his shoulder at Altaïr’s gruffness and whispered a thank you to him. To Malik her spoke the common greeting, “Safety and peace, rafiq.”

Malik slammed his hand on the counter top about to yell at Altaïr, who escaped the confrontation. He puffed out an annoyed breath and regarded the boy before him. “Safety and peace, novice.” He looked the boy up and down. It took serious looking, but it was indeed the novice from yesterday. The hair was roughly chopped shorter, he was not in his usual assassin’s novice uniform, but the face was the same. “Where is your uniform, novice?”

The boy dropped his eyes at Malik’s tone and stared at his bare wriggling toes.

“Novice, uniforms are like feathers, not easily obtained. You must take better care of them.” _Didn’t I just give this speech to Altaïr? Why must I give it almost weekly to those who come through here? I supposed I will be giving it daily to Altaïr now that he is here._

“I’m sorry, rafiq,” the boy mumbled with shame. “The guards were yelling my name and chasing me... I figured I needed to look as different as I--”

"Your... name?! They knew your name?!” interrupted Malik in surprise and new questions flew through his mind. The boy nodded and looked so much like Kadar that moment after being called names and being pushed around to “toughen him up” for training. The pang reminded Malik to be gentler here with this boy who just lost his mentor. He asked the boy to lock the door and gestured for him to follow him into the private back room. There he gave the boy some food and retrieved a log book. “Tell me everything.” Guilt already gnawed at Malik’s innards.

The boy nibbled quietly while thinking through the misadventure. The report he finally gave was nothing Malik had expected.

“We went like you said. I followed Jonus cuz I didn’t really know where I was going, but he did. It was busy in the streets. We practices hiding in the crowds. He showed me how to jump off things into the hay. We practiced climbing. When the sun set, we played hide and seek. There were archers in the day, but we avoided them. There were just a few. Jonus said cities always had archers on the roofs to protect from thieves, that they just yell at you to leave and chase you off. So we weren’t worried during our game. They just became part of the challenge. It was fun, especially in the dark.”

Malik watched the boy’s animated gestures and starry eyes that were so like Kadar’s own excitement about lessons in the Order. He scribbled little notes about the boy’s training and the mentor’s conduct. He made a personal side note about incorporating roof guards into the training of novices. Those side notes were for if ever he were Master of the Order. Maybe he would provide his training ideas to Master Al Mualim. When the boy’s face fell, losing the joy, and quieting, guilt again clamped his stomach muscles.

“I was hiding for so long I thought maybe he really lost me. So I thought I would come catch him. I found him. He was full of arrows.” The boy’s voice now broke a little as he tried to nibble more to prevent himself from crying, but the tears slipped down his cheeks anyways.

Malik put down his quill and book to come gather the boy into his lap for comfort. The boy mumbled through the rest in his broken voice, “Two others were there waiting. I pushed one off the roof. The other almost fell too, but held on. I took a small knife... one of Jonus’s throwing knives... And I stabbed his hands. He fell. I jumped down after him and ... and just... stabbed and stabbed till he stopped moving. Another guard yelled my name from the roof and I ran to hide in the hay. Why did they know my name?”

Malik stroked through the boy’s hair like he would when Altaïr was upset as boys. “I don’t know. I think there must be a traitor in our ranks somewhere. I know my men can be trusted. I’ll find someone to mentor you.” Part of him was relieved that this tragedy was not really his fault. Someone had set these two up.

“Altaïr was real good. Can he be my mentor? He showed me how to sneak across the roofs, and explained everything real well. Even showed me ways to remember the buildings so I can always find my way back here.” The boy looked up at Malik a bit hopeful to be trained under the man who found him.

This was very unlike Altaïr and helped ease some of Malik’s annoyance with him. _So, Altaïr_ _is changing._ “No, he is on a mission that you are not ready for. Part of the tasks of an assassin are being able to find all the information you need to take out your target swiftly. I am going to place you with someone who is adept at this. Ready?”

The boy nodded, “Thank you, rafiq.”

Malik walked the boy out into the main room. “Go wake Altaïr and ask him to sleep in here where it is safe.” Malik showed the boy how to climb the other fountain and hand walk under the lattice to the opening. He stayed under him in case the boy fell, but he didn’t. “Never touch a sleeping assassin or they might kill you,” he advised.

Malik heard the boy call gently, “Master? Master Altaïr. Master?”

“Don’t ever call me master,” grumbled Altaïr.

“Come sleep in the Bureau please.”

The sounds of movement were followed by Altaïr lowering the boy down again into the Bureau before dropping himself down. Malik and Altaïr stared each other in the eyes briefly before Altaïr turned away, hood hiding his face as he mumbled his own formal greeting. Malik sighed and rested his hand on the boy’s head to lead him out, “Safety and peace, Altaïr. Get some sleep. I’m locking the door on my way out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking about Altaïr with a baby made me think of Malik with one and maybe how Malik would have been as gentle and caring to his little brother Kadar as Faruq was with him. This would of course translate down to how Malik treated other small children. Makes me want to cry for Malik who must be missing Kadar terribly at this moment. I might have to do a Kadar chapter.


	9. Broken Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What really happened to Malik’s arm? What secrets are Altaïr hiding about the incidents of Solomon’s Temple?

Malik and Altaïr stared each other in the eyes briefly before Altaïr turned away, hood hiding his face as he mumbled his own formal greeting. Malik sighed and rested his hand on the boy’s head to lead him out, “Safety and peace, Altaïr. Get some sleep. I’m locking the door on my way out.”

Altaïr watched from the shadow of his hood as Malik left the Bureau and locked the door with a key from the outside. It was somewhat ingenious to have a key lock embedded in a door. Altaïr thought Malik was innovative. He always did, except when it came to the Brotherhood where Malik seemed to be so traditionally rooted that exploring new tactics were almost a crime. It was Altaïr’s creativity in that area that made him the best, and also made him arrogant... enough to make a mistake that ended Kadar’s life, crushing the trust he might have had with Malik. He winced internally. _I was a fool... an arrogant fool. But I had no choice. I tried, Malik. I tried so hard to protect you from him._

Once he was sure Malik was gone, he set foot in the main room of the Bureau. He strode to the supply trunk and opened it. He removed only two throwing knives and set them in his shoulder sheaths. That would do him fine till he can pickpocket more. _I’ll collect a bunch to resupply your trunk, Malik._ He then inspected the strange lock he had never really realized was there before. You needed the key whether you were on the inside or the outside. Clever! _Remember when we used to pretend that you were the Master of the order? I take it back, you are brilliant, Malik. I think you are right, novices really should learn lock-picking._ Sometimes Malik could be very innovative after all, not just Altair.

He explored around the room a bit more and stopped at the chess table. The pieces were neatly arrange with the blacks on one side and the whites on the other on their proper starting squares. Altaïr reached down and hesitated. A tiny smirk flicked on his lips as he moved a white pawn from the far corner two squares forward. It was a traditional starting move. Malik would never suspect it was Altaïr who was anything but traditional in his moves. The slight grin faded. It was perhaps a bit truer to his currently feelings. It was a cautious move, a safe one. Annoyed with himself he turned from the game sharply and explored more of the Bureau. He found the box of feathers, but it was locked. He shook it to hear maybe two feathers within. _I’ll get you more feathers too when I climb my next eagle point. This is how I will seek your forgiveness. I will provide for you what you need, when you need it, serve you as best I can. I wish you were the Master._

Altaïr then found the log book. He opened it to find it written in several languages. The first page was the Creed. He recalled having to write the Creed out as a punishment once. He had to write it one hundred times in all six languages and their sub-dialects. It took him almost three days and much begging for Malik to help him at least write it properly the first time. He flipped the pages randomly. Then he flipped to the back of the book where Malik traditionally kept his personal side notes. As carefully as he could, Altaïr added the note to teach novices lock-picking. Then he slid it back into the exact position he had found it.

A few steps brought him to the fake wall, just a heavily painted curtain, into the private back room. He lifted the edge and peered inside as he had several nights ago. He then took a hesitant step within, letting the curtain fall behind him. The smell of incense had lingered in the main room and permeated into this one with the soft scent of sandalwood.

_“Altaïr, why must you always tip my incense pot?” complained Malik while Kadar stifled his snickering with his book._

_“Why must you always burn that one?” Altaïr queried while watching with amusement as Malik cleaned up the ashes._

_“Altaïr, myrrh is one of the three sacred treasures that the wise kings brought the Christ child. Myrrh is sacred.” Malik explained for what he thought was the zillionth time to Altaïr. “If you READ your lessons in Christian philosophy, you would know this.”_

_“Can’t you burn something... less heavy?” Altaïr complained._

_“I have some sandalwood,” Kadar offered._

Malik had burned sandalwood ever since. Altaïr wondered if the change was because of his request or Kadar’s offer. Likely now Malik was burning it in memory of Kadar. It was soft and light. Altaïr frowned analyzing the scent and he realized it was not wholly sandalwood. There was this delicate sweetness to it. He struggled for a long while trying to recall the smell but he could not. It was like a gap in his mind. So he abandoned the puzzling odour. He knelt by Malik’s sleeping mat and pressed his hand to the bed.

_“What are you doing?!” Altaïr yelled at the doctor. “Where is Faruq? That isn’t so bad as to cut it off!”_

_“Faruq will not be back in Masyaf,” a doctor explained coolly. “Now get out and let me work. I have my orders.”_

[ _ _ ](http://silvestervitale.deviantart.com/art/Wing-Cut-182018496)

_Several people had to forcibly haul Altaïr from the healing room as people strapped the fevered and delirious Malik down, making him drink an elixir that made him only more delirious. A tight belt bound his bleeding arm below the shoulder as the saw was lined up above the long gash that was angry and red, but not infected as far as Altaïr was concerned. He did not get to see Malik again till the next day when he nearly assassinated the caregiver in order to gain entry. They were not caring for Malik as Altaïr felt they should. He warned them that if they entered, he’d kill them himself. He was dead serious._

_“Oh Malik. I am so sorry for my part in this.” Altaïr recalled all the times Malik had care for him and did his vey best to return that care now. He washed his friend, fed him broths, bandaged and rebandaged the severed nub of his arm. Malik’s fevers and shock were terrible. He cried out often in his troubled sleep. He also wept and wept for Kadar. Altaïr wanted to die, wished it was he and not Kadar. He wished they had never been ordered along on this mission. He wondered, wondered and wondered why. It made him angry with the Master, but he did not have the courage to disobey the Master. The Master had his reasons and they had to be just. Didn’t they?_

[ _ _ ](http://doubleleaf.deviantart.com/art/while-you-were-sleeping-144961142)

_A novice peeked in, “Altaïr?”_

_“Get out or die!” snarled Altaïr warningly._

_The novice took a deep breath. “The Master insists on seeing you.”_

_It was the only reason Altaïr would leave Malik’s side. And the last time he saw Malik before his first Jerusalem mission._

Altaïr lightly brushed his finger tips over the blanket remembering. He sank down to his knees and leaned over to bury his face there. _I did die. The Master killed me. And by some skill, I live yet. But he holds my life in his hansd. It ends if I do not do his bidding and take these nine lives. I’m no longer sure I am doing the right thing, Malik. I don’t understand why I am doing these tasks. Save me... save me from myself..._

With a shaking and shuddering breath, Altaïr stood. He clenched his fists and unclenched them. He flicked out his wrist dagger and snapped it back as he regained his composure. Malik always seemed to unravel him in some way, sometimes in every way. Altaïr made his way out to the carpets and cushions. He decided he was overtired and that must be the reason for this... this... weakness of mind. The Master would be furious with him for giving in. He carefully removed his weaponry and armour so as to lie as comfortably as he could. He needed real sleep to start that mission. _When Malik comes back, I will start._ Sleep stole his thoughts almost immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Malik gets his wing cut, the art that inspired this chapter. See MIYOart’s picture. http://silvestervitale.deviantart.com/art/Wing-Cut-182018496
> 
> \- I’ve been admiring this picture from doubleleaf for a long while for a fanfiction option. It is one of the very first that inspired me with the pairing of Malik and Altaïr. http://doubleleaf.deviantart.com/art/while-you-were-sleeping-144961142


	10. Malik's Turmoil

Altaïrcarefully removed his weaponry and armour so as to lie as comfortably as he could. He needed real sleep to start that mission. Sleep stole his thoughts almost immediately.

Malik had walked the boy into the rich district of Jerusalem to an estate he knew. The man of the estate greeted him well as Malik handed over a scroll with a small masterfully scripted prayer on it. If ever asked why the scribe was here, it was to deliver the scroll. The boy was then left with the man, the elderly rafiq Malik had taken over the bureau from. This rafiq’s two sons were some of Malik’s most trusted informants. The boy would be well trained and raised here, protected and away from the mysterious dangers that seemed to be leaking out of Masyaf.

Malik felt like a traitor himself by doing this secretly behind Al Mualim’s back. He disagreed on too many levels with the training tactic and the danger this novice was put in, even more so with whoever gave up their location and names to the guard. He also wondered over and over, who told the guards the two would be here training. Who told the guards their names? Why kill a low ranking assassin and the boy he is teaching? What threat were they? How many others were falling prey to this? _Not in my city. Not ever in my care. This is MY city and I take my job seriously. The Creed is for all, even Al Mualim. Dear gods,_ _Altaïr, what have you gotten into? How long have you been involved?_ The most disturbing thought of all came to his mind. _Was it planned for my brother and I to die? Did you know, Altaïr?_

Things were falling into place in his suspicious mind; the answers were beginning to arise. He pressed his hand on the door of the Bureau to calm his sudden fury. _Why did you not tell me? Why did you not trust me? Did you think yourself so above things, so elite that you would not need help? You arrogant ass!_

Seething, he unlocked the door and entered, locking it behind himself because he did not trust his temper right now should a client enter. He was about to storm to the lattice covered room to tear some shreds out of Altaïr when a change in his environment made him pause. He stood frozen scanning everything carefully for what might have changed in the previously perfectly placed items of the room. Then he saw it. The white pawn was moved. He frowned at it. It was just a pawn. It was a safe, restrained move. Altaïr usually moved the knight out boldly first. This move told Malik more about Altaïr than he wanted to know.

_Malik, I am a pawn. I am afraid. I don’t know how to get out. I feel powerless._

Malik’s fury melted away and he moved a black pawn to meet the white one. _I made you a promise once. I am never far if you need me. All you need to do is ask. Swallow your god be damned pride and ask!_ He sighed and looked in the sun dappled room at the sleeping assassin. He leaned in the doorway and watched Altaïr for a long while.

He felt some relief that Altaïr was actually sleeping, albeit somewhat fitfully, but still. Malik placed his log book on the counter and retrieved his quill and ink. Then he lit the incense pot and sprinkled a powder over it. The jar was getting low, so he drew out a bowl to mix more. White sandalwood powder made up the base and majority. Then he added some orris root powder and a hint of vanilla. Those made a gentle sweetening he had found Altaïr seemed to like when they were teens. He recalled the conversation that day with his brother, Kadar, suggesting the sandalwood. A pinch of the myrrh completed this mixture. Malik could not help but smile a little at the silliness of how Altaïr liked such a feminine scent as orris root. Malik glanced up, but Altaïr slept on.

Sitting upon a stool, Malik began to write in the log book the news from the boy that he had not written yet. He then added something traitorous. He mentioned the boy’s wounds and fever and that the boy perished soon after. It would be the first black mark on his otherwise perfect record of saving lives in this Bureau. He then flipped to the end of the book to record other little notes of interest about training. He frowned at the messy scribble in there that was not his own. It was barely legible. _Novissis shood lern to pik loks._ First he nodded as it was a good idea, truly. Then he slammed the book shut angry that someone had possibly perused this secret log and dared scribble in it. He glared in the side room at the figure tossing over on the pillows. Only Altaïr’s writing was that bad. He smirked as he opened the book to the back again and added his own comment next to the note. _Make Altaïr keep his own journal to help his literary skills which clearly lack and improve his truly abysmal penmanship._ Most pleased with his small venting, he went on to make the earlier notes he had originally opened the book for.

He prepared a late lunch, or maybe more like an early supper and set some on a tray for Altaïr. Everyone was an enemy to Altaïr, apparently even in his dreams. It troubled Malik as he watched Altaïr tensing and rolling over with a dagger in hand to attack an unseen dream enemy. He wanted to know more, but Altaïr was like an iron box with no lid, hinges or key. And just when you think you found a way in, the box transforms to a golden eagle and either attacks or takes flight or both. Malik had had time to mostly heal from the loss of his brother, but Altaïr was still alive and he was beginning to miss the closeness they once shared. Altaïr had become so overbearing and reckless, like the Creed no longer applied to him. He had pushed Malik and Kadar to a distance when he was taking his solo missions. Then avoided them altogether as if they were too low a rank to even bother looking at. Now Altaïr was nothing, barely fourth or fifth rank assassin, little more than a novice despite his skills which clearly had not diminished with his rank.

Malik put the book away and sprinkled a little more incense to burn. He pecked through his food watching Altaïr sleep. At least till the assassin finally rolled over facing him. Altaïr almost never showed his face to Malik. Even when he was nude and bathing, Malik noticed how Altaïr never faced him. He wanted to push back that hood and look him in the eye, see those golden eyes like he did that brief moment. He wanted to demand answers. Altaïr sat up and tugged the hood to hide his features before standing and shaking himself properly awake. It annoyed Malik to no end being avoided like this. He figured Altaïr would continue this path of avoidance and not bother to trust him or ask for assistance. His annoyance grew as he also figured Altaïr didn’t really have a reason to trust him. _Why would he? Why would I want to be close to him in any way? DAMMIT! Why DO I want to be close to him?_

Malik struggled with the onslaught of old wounds of the heart. He struggled with the ideas he has had of Altaïr’s betrayal of the Brotherhood, reminded that Altaïr lost his rank and for very good reason. Last time he saw Altaïr there was still that arrogance. Altaïr was fighting the treatment of others. That fight though seemed less so now. Malik watched Altaïr approach the doorway and stop. He took reserved... restrained and measured steps into the main room. Altaïr kept several arm lengths warily away from the counter. Last time he was in this room, he was practically in Malik’s face and they yelled things at one another. With a little more thought, _Ok, maybe it was just me yelling._

“I am ready to start my mission,” Altaïr stated in his low and slightly husky voice.

Malik’s mouth totally betrayed his wish to be civil, “You have been here a whole week already without really starting, have you forgotten who your target is?” Seeing Altaïr tense and turn a little stabbed Malik with a hint of regret.

That regret faded the second Altaïr retorted, “Of course not!” the tone snappish. “I am here for the Regent.” There was a long pause where Altaïr eyed the ground in front of the counter. Malik wondered what introspection was going on in Altaïr’s mind. “And with your help, rafiq, I will end him.”

Malik blinked several times in silence. “You... are actually asking for my help?”

“Just tell me where to begin!” snapped Altaïr again.

Only then did Malik realize his question sounded condescending. He pulled out a map of Jerusalem and pointed to each place he mentioned in the poor middle district. Altaïr did not approach to look at the map. So, Malik added, “return here after you find each piece of news... and Altaïr, be careful.”

The hood shifted enough for a brief look at Altaïr’s eyes before it tipped and swallow the features in shadow again, “Safety and peace, rafiq.” Altaïr’s steps were careful even upon leaving. Malik watched with a little relief as Altaïr stuffed some of the food from the tray into his belt pouches before climbing out the roof access.

Altaïr’s attitude had definitely been changing over the year. He seemed to relatively be holding to the Creed and understandings of the Order. He did, however, still kill with enough recklessness to set off the entire city alarms when he ended the life of someone in power within the city. Malik hoped this would not be the case, but resigned himself to the fact that it likely would be. Altaïr always accomplished his task, even if he abandoned discretion and any sense of self-preservation. That last thought left Malik’s stomach in knots. _He had better report in after each thing he finds._


	11. Altair's Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by some Deviant Art works called Leap of Faith featuring Alrair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French-English Translations
> 
> Chalice = chalice  
> “Voleur maudit! Je te trancherais ta gorge! ” = “Foul Thief! I’ll cut your throat!”  
> “Dégage!” = “Get lost!”  
> “Sacré -” = “Holy -”  
> “Les flammes de l'enfer te dévoront.” = “The flames of Hell will devour you.”  
> “Je t’áttendais, assassin. Ça me donerais plaisir,” = “I have waited for you, assassin. This will give me pleasure.”  
> ~Parle moins, Tempier.~ = Talk less, Templar.

The hood shifted enough for Altaïr to briefly look at Malik’s eyes before it tipped and swallowed his features in shadow again, “Safety and peace, rafiq.” Altaïr’s steps were careful even upon leaving. Malik watched as Altaïr stuffed some of the food from the tray into his belt pouches before climbing out the roof access.

It twisted in his gut like a dull blade to stand and be so disdainfully spoken to by Malik. Altaïr endured it, though, like so many other wounds. However, this one he felt he more than deserves. _If my penance is to serve you and to take your sting as I do, so be it. I am not asking for forgiveness. My sins are too great. But... maybe..._

Altaïr shook his head. There was no maybe. The Master made it clear. There were only these nine lives for his own, and these lessons of the Creed he was to relearn by being stripped down to novice status. Yet, these lessons were confusing with what he was learning from his targets. They blurred the edges of his black-and-white world into hazy shades of grey. Even up on the highest wall, the world looked no clearer. The line between right and wrong was not so obvious.

He climbed the lookout tower and almost tossed the guard over the side without a thought, but the guard cringed. He begged mercy. Altaïr hesitated. Then he wondered why he hesitated. The guard pleaded again. Altaïr’s wrist dagger snapped back into its sheath as he turned from the terrified bowman. He climbed to where and eagle screeched at him a moment before it took flight. He lifted his head to the late afternoon sun, spread his arms like wings and closed his eyes. He waited. He was such an easy target for that bowman. But no arrow pierced him. He then dropped his arms almost disappointed, wondering what divine power was out there and if it had a plan for him.

_“There is no God. There are just those that came before.”_

_Adha’s darker amber eyes gazed at Altaïr through thick dark lashes. “But there is a God. You need only have faith. Those who came before, those great and gifted beings of God helped shape mankind, helped teach and guide and even protect mankind. We are special like that Altaïr. We are of them. Assassin, you may call me Adha, Adha Chalice. We are all of God for God is in all things from the foulest smelling dirt to the glory of the sun in the sky.”_

_“Blasphemy!”_

_“Not blasphemy, Altaïr,” she replied softly._

_“Nothing is true,” he parroted Master Al Mualim’s words._

_Her fingers lightly touched the scar on his lips, “Take a leap of faith for me, Altaïr.”_

Altaïr spread his arms again and leapt. The bowman yelped in shock at the suicide leap and lunged to try to save this crazy man in white, but missed the hem of the robes. The feel of the air rushing through his robes in this brief flight made him forget everything but the feel of feathered flight. A dip and roll and he dived, turning neatly over till he fell trustingly. It helped clear his mind and stir his blood. The eagle soared above where he watched as he fell. Feathers scattered from startled pigeons. The bowman watched the fall in disbelief.

   

The only drawback to landing, other than the risk of going splat from missing the soft hay was occasionally “PTUI!” having to spit out hay.

“Voleur maudit! Je te trancherais ta gorge!” yelled a guard at a woman that he and two others picked on.

Altaïr brushed the hay from his clothes distracted, ignoring the scene of harassment as everyone else was. His eyes on the hay he picked from his sleeve, he bumped into one of those guards. “Dégage!” the guard gestured rudely. “Sacré -” Then gurgled in death from the wrist dagger Altaïr was pulling from his gut. A flutter and swirl of robes, a spin and whistle of steel, Altaïr’s sword revealed itself to embed into the second guard. The third charged him daringly, only to be dispatch as quickly as the rest. Altaïr melted into the stunned crowd as the woman thanked him for his aid.

An approaching guard yelled alert. Golden eyes took in the surroundings for an escape. Altaïr dashed off and darted around a corner. He crashed into the metal plate armour of a templar. _I should have gone left and not right. Dammit._ More yells rang through the narrow alley and echoed off the walls. Altaïr fumbled out his sword barely in time to deflect the templar’s. Blades arced. Blades clanged. More guards yelled. The thunder of many feet hit the cobblestones. Altaïr dodged a slice. It still managed to bite across his thigh sharply. He staggered. His sword pommel crushed the nose of a guard who came close enough. But it glanced off the helm of another. The guards were better armoured. The Templar’s sword bit a chink out of Altaïr’s right arm guard. Pain bloomed there and was immediately abandoned.

Altaïr’s world narrowed to this alley, this fight, these lives, and any opening for an escape as his strength was being worn down. The ground was slick and slippery with the blood of the fallen. He jumped for some crates but was thrown down on the other side. Steel jabbed his shoulder, he felt the shove but not the pain. Numbness was consuming it. Parry, dodge, stab were all that echoed in his thoughts. A master swordsman fought against men of better armour. The templar’s metal-clad fist blinded Altaïr for a moment. Awareness came back as he lay on the floor, awareness of pain, awareness of the Templar over him. The scene shimmered like heat off hot stones.

“Les flammes de l'enfer te dévoront.” The templar raised his sword to deal a final blow. “Je t’áttendais, assassin. Ça me donerais plaisir,” gloated the Templar as his sword arced down upon Altaïr.

 _Parle moins, Templier._ Altair stilled, measuring each painful breath, and waited.

CLASH!


	12. Malik's Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heehee... more Tibah! You asked for a little more Kadar. It is tiny, but it is here... so is a little yaoi subtlety between Malik and Altaïr!

“Les flammes de l'enfer vont te dévorer.” The Templar raised his sword to deal a final blow. “J’étais t’áttendre, assassin. Ça me donnerais plaisir,” gloated the Templar as his sword arced down upon Altaïr.

Altaïr stilled, measuring each painful breath and waited. _Parlez moins, Templar._

*CLASH!*

Altaïr’s attitude had definitely been changing over the year. He seemed to relatively be holding to the Creed and understanding the rules of the Order. He did, however, still kill with enough recklessness to set off all the city alarms when he ended the life of someone in power within the city. Malik hoped this would not be the case, but resigned himself to the fact that it likely would be. Altaïr always accomplished his task, even if he abandoned discretion and any sense of self-preservation. That last thought left Malik’s stomach in knots. _He had better report in after each thing he finds._

*CRASH!*

Malik stared down over the counter where his ink pot fell and shatter on the stone floor messily. At least the Acre map was not ruined. He chastised himself quietly for being distracted with worry for a man who vexed him as much as Altaïr did. The red spill of ink on the floor seemed ominous and his stomach clenched. _I’ll kill him myself if he does not return._

Walking around the counter through the gate, he dropped a cloth on the spill to soak up the ink. He fetched a pail for the mess and knelt to clean it up. The door opened while he was there. “Rafiq?” Tibah’s delicate question interrupted his worrying. He dumped the remains of his bottle and ink into pail and greeted her. She smiled pleasantly, “Let me help you, rafiq.” She came and finished the cleanup before he could refuse. Her brother entered and left several times, depositing boxes. “I brought supplies as promised.” Her brother frowned at her forwardness again, but said nothing.

“Thank you, Miss Tibah. We should discuss the ... ...” he could not finish his statement as he perused the supplies. The boxes contained more bandages than he could ever buy in one venture and of extreme quality, bottles of disinfectant quality alcohol, spools of waxed thread, salves and lubricants, herbal medicines and teas. “In the name of...”

“Rafiq, one should not risk taking the Lord’s name in vain,” she gently reminded.

“It would not been in vain but a true prayer of thanks,” he breathed. “I can never... Miss Tibah...” There were even supplies of the most refined surgical blades. “Where did you? How did you?”

She smiled at how he could not complete a single sentence or question. She rinsed the rags with fountain water and returned to dry her hands on her layered skirt. “Do they please you?”

Malik had no idea what to answer. This was the best set of medical supplies he could have ever wished for. Not even the Bureau supplied him this well. These supplies in totality could cost someone the price of a smaller estate property. He wondered where she obtained this money. For a girl of only fifteen, she was already darned amazing... and maybe dangerous for that. “They... they please me greatly, but I cannot compensate you.”

“I think you can. Remember, I ask only for your trust.” She tucked her head scarf more neatly.

“Yes, trust... and something else,” he mentioned warily.

Tibah smiled softly, a veiled smile. “I will ask it of you later, but it is not anything impossible, I assure you. Will you be visiting the stall this week? Should I plan to have anything in particular for you? Maybe... red ink?” she deftly changed the subject and it reeled him. She peeked on the counter at the map.

Malik caught himself and came over. “The map for your father will be ready by the end of the week. And yes, I suppose I will need more red ink. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

She dipped a tiny curtsy before leaving.

Malik stood feeling a bit dumb, a lot invaded, and totally entrapped. These supplies were needed. The best doctors alone had these wares. He wondered if his brothers and God had a hand in this provisioning. The map forgotten for the day, he spent it moving the boxes and supplies into his back room or up into the storage room, lining the shelves with the jars and bottles. He inspected the small scalpels in amazement. The strange thread spool of a substance he did not recognize confused him, as did some curved needles. Excited with the new finds, he delved into the medical books he had for clues as to their uses. He found no references and concluded he needed new books.

_Trust..._

Malik wondered about that. Who could be trusted? There were the few informants he maintained and a select few new ones he established on his own here. There was the ex-Bureau rafiq. His trust in the rest of the brotherhood and in Master Al Mualim was shaking though. A glimpse through a window told him that it was already close to midnight. He double checked locks, cleaned the souk and set out extra pillows. In a vague hope that Altaïr might return this night, he set out some food with a basket over it to prevent the pigeons from attacking it. He wondered if that spilled ink was really an omen. The sinking feeling in his gut kept reminding him. Was it a coincidence that all the medical supplies he could need arrived today because they were going to be needed? He looked up through the lattice roof. The breeze proved quite chill so he set out an extra blanket.

_Trust..._

He wondered when the last time he and Altaïr really trusted one another. It was a few years ago when Al Mualim had given Altaïr a series of solo missions. Altaïr had been in private discussion with Al Mualim for hours, but would tell Malik nothing of the missions. Malik had tried to not be jealous. He had just earned his own full ranked assassin whites as Kadar had received his greys. Altaïr was a master assassin with the neat black stitching on his robes to indicate it. His arrogance proved the rank change too. But that last night together, Altaïr had been anything but arrogant.

_The three ran out to the farthest stack of hay to stare at the stars together. Kadar was as excited for his brother as he was for Altaïr. The teen’s idolization of Altaïr also bugged Malik and made him a bit jealous. Tonight was a night to abandon all things. They would be separated by noon the next day. Malik wanted to know why. Partners were a common practice that Al Mualim was changing this year. He let it slide so as not to start a fight, not to part company in argument. Kadar was already asleep and cuddling against Malik’s back. He rolled his eyes facing Altaïr in the hay. There would be nothing private this night... or likely any other after this. Altaïr reached out and gripped Malik’s hand. Malik ran his other fingers through Altaïr’s hair. He always loved how incredibly feather soft Altaïr’s hair was._

_“Remember our promise to each other, Altaïr?” Malik asked._

_“Yes... and don’t you forget it,” the arrogance slid into Altaïr’s voice and then vanished in wariness, “... no matter what, even if... just... no matter what happens between us.”_

_There was always this slight lack of trust and yet total trust. Something Altaïr was always hiding and yet the almost desperate trust in his golden eyes would make Malik just nod. “No matter what, I will be here for you. You will never be alone. You can always... and I mean always... trust me.”_

_Trust..._

_ _

_They slept together in that hay trusting in their safety, relaxed with the peace between them all. Safety and peace. Kadar nestled behind his brother, softly snoring. Altaïr slept with his arms tucked under his head facing Malik, tensing in phantom dreams that always plagued him. Malik stayed awake to watch him as long as he could. This... the last day they truly shared trust._

Even as Malik curled on the carpet of the souk, he wondered if trust would ever be regained between them. He drifted off to sleep there unintentionally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by http://the-evil-legacy.deviantart.com/art/Sleep-in-the-hay-149961454


	13. Alrair Solace of Night

Altaïr stilled, measuring each painful breath and waited. _Parlez moins, Templier._

*CLASH!*

Altaïr’s wrist blade trapped the Templar’s sword as his own sword thrust through the lacings of the plate armor, broke ribs and pierced the Templar’s chest. The world blackened for Altaïr then.

Even as Malik curled on the carpet of the souk, he wondered if trust would ever be regained between them. Malik drifted off to sleep there unintentionally, totally unaware of Altaïr’s situation.

It was many hours, or had to have been since there were stars in the sky, when Altaïr opened his eyes and looked up. He could hardly breath, crushed by a weight upon him. The tang of blood lingered in the air. As his wits gathered, he realized the Templar lay half on him in his heavy plate armor, thus the weight hindering Altaïr’s breathing. He shoved the body off and sat up. The blood had not seeped in his direction and thankfully had not stained his clothes. He didn’t want to have to listen to Malik yelling at him about robes again.

He stood to take stock of his situation. Everyone was dead in the alley. He barely remembered the details of the fight, they were such a blur. In the morning, more guards would come to check the dead with people to dispose of them. He needed to be scarce. He needed to find some shelter and check his own wounds. He hauled himself up onto the roof and rolled into a roof souk.

His right arm throbbed under his arm guard and at his shoulder. He twisted to see if his shoulder was stabbed, but could not see blood. It just ached. His right hand was not swelling, so there was no break in the bones under the arm guard. The pains then in his right arm could be ignored and promptly were. He snapped his wrist blade out and in and out and in to make sure it was not damaged by the sword. The leather glove was ruined though. He pulled it off to see blood. The bandages Malik had placed there were soaked and torn. A new cut added to the old one. Altaïr discarded the ruined glove and pulled off the ruined bandages. This needed attention. He emptied one of his small water bottles over it to clean it. It actually wasn’t so bad. The cut was not deep. He debated a moment then dug out of a belt pouch a thick roll of bandaging material. He crudely wrapped his hand and tied it off with his teeth.

The other wound he knew required attention, needed some delicacy. He peered through the curtains of the souk and spotted an archer walking along the roof of another building. He’d have to be very very quiet for this. Altaïr peeked through the cut in his pants at the wound on his thigh. Grumbling in his head at the total annoyance of this, he resigned himself and removed his belts at his waist and his abdominal armour. Then he took off the red sash and opened his robes. He peeked through the curtains again to keep note of the archer’s location and make sure that location was no closer. Lying on his back a moment, he pushed his pants down to his knees. This cut on his thigh was not good. He sat and inspected it a bit longer, through gritting teeth, to make sure there was nothing actually in the cut. He emptied his second water bottle over this wound to wash it. Taking some of the bandaging and folding it into the pad, he pressed it onto the gash. The rest of the bandaging he used to wrap his thigh tightly. This will do. It had to. He was used to this kind of rough self-healing. He has had a few years of it now.

Feeling very exposed, he pulled his pants back up and restrapped all his gear back into place. Another peek proved that the archer was still pacing the roof of the other building. In white, Altaïr was a very visible moving target at night. So he chose to sit there a while longer till he could totally ignore all his pains. While he sat, he reviewed his actions and reflected upon his errors. He replayed the words spoken **,** translating them in his head.

_"J'étais t'áttendre, assassin. Ça me donnerais plaisir," gloated the Templar._

It was then that Altaïr tensed with realization. They were waiting for him. Or at least that Templar was. They were waiting either him or another assassin. It was more proof of a leak within the Order. Malik needed to know. Altaïr peeked at the archer again, though this time watched and calculated the archer’s pacing. The archer turned his back. Altaïr slipped out of the souk and dropped between the buildings out of sight.

He made his way back to the bureau carefully. His feet dextrously walked over the lattice of the Bureau’s indoor souk. He dropped down, catching the lattice in his fingers, his feet dangling gracelessly as he struggled suddenly to recover and pull himself up. If his reflexes were poorer, he might have landed right on top of Malik. He peered through the lattice glaringly at Malik asleep on the carpets. _You have your OWN bed... in the back... safe... Stupid stupid... I could have hurt you._ Huffing he walked along the wall edge and climbed down over the fountain instead.

Silently he walked around Malik’s sleeping form to the basket on the floor, shooing the curious pigeons from his dinner. He sat on the floor, lifting the basket and eating his fill off the tray. He watched Malik as he ate. This is the closest he had gotten to Malik in a long while. Now and then he saw Malik frown in his sleep and wondered if he was chastising a dream Altaïr over the death of Kadar or the loss of his arm. Wincing at that possibility, he could watch no longer. He walked instead into the main room and planned to move his white pawn a square. Malik’s black pawn blocked his path. _So you block me... will you wall me out? Or will you kill me?_ He moved the next pawn forward two places into a square where Malik’s pawn could take it. _We are nothing but pawns... can I trust you? Will you catch me when I fall?_

He abandoned the board and looked over the map of Acre on the counter that Malik was working on. He noted the red stain on the floor and felt a chill creep through him. His golden eyes snapped to Malik wondering if he was hurt, if this blood was his. He knelt to see how old it was; maybe it belonged to another assassin. It had been so well wiped, he almost missed it. There was no way to tell how fresh the stain was. His sharp eyes studied Malik from where he knelt. Malik slept with slow even breaths. Altaïr sighed in relief.

He eased the wood gate open and moved behind the counter. A quick peek into the back room told him no one was there healing. _Then why is he in MY bed?_

_“Malik! Why are you in my bed?” declared Altaïr after the brief celebration of his fourteenth birthday._

_“Because I find you in mine all the time,” Malik countered, eyes teasing._

Altaïr shook his head of the memory, one long gone now. He dared not go into this private area. Not again. Instead he invaded Malik’s privacy in other ways. He set a handful of feathers, from an eagle point he had collected on the way, on top of the box where Malik kept them. Then he removed the log book carefully, glancing up often to make sure Malik was not waking. He opened it to the back entries. Altaïr could not help the small smirk as he read the note of what Malik intended for him. He searched for a scrap of paper and some means to write. On this scrap he wrote a note. It had lots of scratching out and retrying. Writing was not easy for Altaïr. It took more concentration than he ever wanted. When he was finally done and the ink dried, he folded it and slipped it in between the pages to mark where Malik left off in the back of the log book. His pulse raced a little nervously at this note he left. He replaced the book perfectly.

He wiped some sweat from his brow annoyed that he should stress so much over something so small. His footfalls remained silent as he returned to the souk where he stood over Malik wondering what to do next. Malik hugged a large pillow. Altaïr could imagine both Malik’s arms tucked under it comfortably, but there was just the one. He carefully stepped over the sleeping form and knelt down. His eyes noted every line and edge, ever hair, the play of moonlight on Malik’s cheek. Very carefully he rested his hand on Malik’s back. There was a soft murmur but no more. Since Malik did not stir, he ventured to touch through Malik’s hair with his other hand. The thick dark hair poked between his fingers. He smiled as he played through Malik’s hair a while. Malik was always the deeper sleeper between them. “Safety and Peace, Malik,” he whispered as he drew away. He climbed back up the fountain and out of the Bureau to find a roof souk to sleep in.

“... Mmmm? Altaïr?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was art for this called Solace of Night by Myoart. However, I am not able to find it.


	14. Malik's Chasm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is all about touch and go. The bad blood between Malik and Altaïr make it hard to overcome and reconnect. Malik is temperamental for many more reasons than just what Altaïr has been held responsible for. I may reveal some of that later in another chapter. Altaïr carries the weight of that responsibility, constantly reminded of his failures... no longer the Great Eagle of Masyaf, not in his own eyes anyways. Two broken men, will they ever heal?

“Safety and Peace, Malik,” Altaïr whispered as he drew away. He climbed back up the fountain and out of the Bureau to find a roof souk to sleep in. 

“... Mmmm? Altaïr?” 

Malik thought he heard Altaïr’s voice. He opened his sleep blurred eyes to the moonlit sight of white and grey fluttering wings by the edge of the roof access to the Bureau. He almost concluded it was just pigeons, but his back was still warm where Altaïr’s hand had rested against it. A lump choked Malik’s throat a moment and he had to swallow several times for composure. As he scrubbed his eyes to clear away the sleep, he noted that the food had been eaten from the tray, and the basket left off. He tiredly cleaned up, sort of. He abandoned the tray on his counter as he passed to his rear private room where he slept, figuring Altaïr was not coming this night. 

Malik woke early, worry gnawing his gut still. Another assassin arrived in the Bureau to exchange news and guidance for his next mission. His bald head beaded slightly with sweat from the heat of the day. His target was a specific Templar coordinating inspection efforts. When he left for his mission, Malik wondered why in all of God’s glory Altaïr could not so easily follow respectful protocol like this man. 

He had his large log book on the counter to record the mission and who was on it and the news from Masyaf. Belatedly, he regretted not asking about why trainees were being sent to Jerusalem with their mentors. He promised himself he would ask when the assassin returned with his information, when he came to get the feather for his kill. 

He never saw the slip of paper marking the back of the book as he thumped it back under the counter on a shelf. He did however note the collection of eagle feathers. How could he not? As his book thumped, the feathers puffed off the shelf to scatter all over the floor. There was a moment of confusion on his face till he concluded that Altaïr was indeed here. He snatched up each feather as if he could strangle them in Altaïr’s place. _Where the hell are you? What part of show up every day and give me news did you NOT understand!? You never listen and follow the rules!_ He grumbled through most of his day. 

Altaïr did drop in around lunch. He stopped at the door. Malik looked up. The silence grew uncomfortable between them until Altaïr took several slow steps into the room. Malik glared at Altaïr and returned his attention to the map. He tried to banish his anger for being made to worry, though he covertly watched Altaïr. The assassin really was reserved and restrained about coming in here. Then why touch him while sleeping? It really muddled Malik’s emotions, and he hated feeling out of sorts. 

“Safety and peace, rafiq.” 

Malik lifted his head repeating the greeting. Only then did he actually note the missing left glove. “Altaïr, where is your glove?” as if he spoke to a petulant child. He could see the bandaging around the hand and the fresher spots of blood from climbing with a wounded hand. 

“I discarded it,” was Altaïr’s simple husky excuse. 

Malik was immediately vexed by Altaïr’s disregard. “You can’t just go throwing these things away! Altaïr, it could have been salvaged.” 

“No, it was ruined. It could not.” Altaïr’s voice rose a little with indignation. 

“Altaïr everything can be salvaged!” Malik found himself snapping loudly enough to be considered almost yelling. He expected Altaïr to yell back. 

And he did, “I cannot be salvaged!” 

They both froze. 

Altaïr’s hands fisted tightly and shook slightly. If the silence earlier was uncomfortable, this was definitely more so. Malik didn’t expect those words, of any words, to come from Altaïr. He wanted to contradict Altaïr but could not find his voice. Altaïr was already turning away. 

Malik retrieved a small box of bandages and salve. He wanted to get Altaïr to stay still long enough to properly treat all those wounds he had seen when Altaïr had bathed. Instead he insisted on seeing the hand. Altaïr was mysteriously always a fast healer, almost unnaturally. But his wounds did still take some time. If infected, or worse healed over and infected, they could be the death of him. That anxious thought turned his next request into a harsh demand unintentionally. “Remove the bandages, wash it and come back for me to see it.” 

Altaïr’s wary step away reminded Malik yet again how poorly chosen his tone was. Altaïr’s shoulders were sagged enough that Malik noticed. He also noticed how Altaïr complied with this demand with no complaint, but for how long? Likely only long enough till he could take flight again like a wary wounded eagle. Altaïr retreated cautiously into the souk and filled a basin with water from the fountain to wash. Malik hmphed in surprise that Altaïr remembered to not dirty the drinking fountain. 

While Altaïr washed his hand, Malik located a replacement glove from the supply trunk. The chessboard caught his eye with the sacrificial white pawn. In light of what flew from Altaïr’s lips, a sacrificial pawn made depressing sense. Malik moved a pawn forward to be diagonal to Altaïr’s second pawn, offering his own sacrifice or giving Altaïr’s pawn room to pass between his two black ones. _We are equals Altaïr._

Altaïr returned to the room by the time Malik was behind the counter again. The Acre map was rolled to protect it. Without a word, Altaïr held out his hand. Malik took it remarkably gently in his own and looked at it. There was a second cut added to the first one he had bandaged, but it was not too terrible. He rubbed the healing salve into it and rebandaged it while Altaïr held very still. Malik inspected the wrist blade to make sure it was not damaged and considered Altaïr lucky his wrist was not sliced. 

The quiet was so powerful that Malik felt he could not disturb it much. He asked in a hushed voice, “Are you hurt anywhere else?” He looked into Altaïr’s face, but the hood shadowed most of it. The urge to push it back and see Altaïr’s eyes was strong, but he knew he could not reach that far with the counter between them. Maybe Altaïr planned that. Maybe Malik did unconsciously out of habit of being angry and distrustful of Altaïr. It was too late to change that now. 

Altaïr turned his head and Malik thought he would leave. His posture was of slight guilt, he had seen it before. It was both admittance that yes he was wounded elsewhere and refusal. “It is just a graze,” his deep voice was almost a whisper. 

“Let me see it?” Malik asked, hoping his gentler tone would encourage Altaïr to trust him at least to heal him. 

Malik was disappointed though as Altaïr turned him down. “I will be fine. You are busy... and I have yet to find news of my target.” 

Malik burst out of frustration, “I have seen you wounded before. I have seen the marks on you from your other missions. The Dai of the Bureaus are all skilled in mending these. Have you not let them either?!” 

“They aren’t... not...” Altaïr changed topic most annoyingly, “The rafiq of Acre’s hand is old and shakes.” 

“Clearly so does yours with how badly those other wounds healed. At least he had salves!” Malik could not understand why his anger was overpowering him. Altaïr seemed to drive it out of him. “What about in Damscus? Did you not bother there either?” 

After some silence Altaïr retreated to the door of the souk. Over his shoulder he shot back, “He refused,” and fled out the roof access. 

_Refused?!_

Healing was one of the crucial responsibilities of a rafique or a Dai in the Bureau. Each rafiq was trained in simple mending, enough to save a life or hold it till a trusted physician could be found. Malik was more than shocked to hear the rafiq in Damascus refused to heal Altaïr. It added to the other worrisome things he had heard over the year. While he healed some from the loss of his brother and his arm, and didn’t exactly hold Altaïr at fault for either anymore, others still did. He understood how Altaïr was not responsible, yet Al Mualim made a spectacle of Altaïr and thus branded him a traitor in the minds of all other brothers. 

The chasm was so wide between Malik and Altaïr. They had been forced apart by their duties as assassins on solo missions, driven apart by some unknown plan. The catastrophe of Solomon’s Temple split an unbreachable gorge in their hearts. The chasm was only further widened by blood and hurt emotions, and new roles and positions within the Order. They were two eagles, who had flown as one for so long, that now flew solo and alone. Both bore the hardship of broken wings in different ways. Both lost their mate in that one catastrophe. The questions that hung in the air like stray feathers was... how to bridge the gap. Can the gap be bridged? 

Malik recalled the warmth on his back from what he was sure now was Altaïr’s hand there when he had woken last night. Altaïr wanted to be close, to trust and be trusted. So did Malik. They just could not figure out how.


	15. Altair Hurting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things cannot be left on their own... neither can some people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The grumpy kid memory. Thanks to Deviant Art and the discovery of tapkala's sketch that inspired the memory.  
> http://tapkala.deviantart.com/art/childhood-152657169

Malik recalled the warmth on his back from what he was sure now was Altaïr's hand there when he had woke last night. Altaïr wanted to be close, to trust and be trusted. So did Malik. They just could not figure out how.

Already in flight, Altaïr found he could not stop his feet and hands from doing what they knew by instinct. Run. Climb. Jump. Hide. He finally had to stop just to catch his breath. He looked around to see where he had ended up. A wall? The wall. He was at the edge of Jerusalem. Many upset pigeons flapped in his face their protest to his invasion. Their fear-filled wing beats echoed his heart beats. He sat on the edge of the building and leaned against the wall. Below his dangling feet was a hay stack, but it did not beg to be scattered by his drop.

Altaïr stared down at the new glove, now dusty and slightly worn from his flight. He wished Malik were not always so angry with him. It was not like he invited this scrap with Templars and guards. It was not like it was his fault that the Dai of Damascus bureau refused to heal him. Ok, maybe it was. It was his fault that he broke the tenants of the Creed. It was his fault that he instigated a scene that in the end got Kadar killed, it was his fault for not insisting on getting healing. He just... didn't trust them anymore than they trusted him.

It was no different than when he was in repeated scraps as a child in Masyaf. He was always so different. Looking different didn't help. Blond hair in a sea of brown and black. His skills that matched those older than he, didn't help. His strange ability to heal faster than normal and do some things people thought impossible, made him ... different. He strove so hard to be like them, to be the best and earn their respect. Everyone seemed jealous of him, back then, even Malik.

" _Another fight, Altaïr." Malik's barely cracking pre-teen voice chided._

_Altaïr crossed his arms. "I didn't start it! It's not my fault!"_

_Malik turned his back on the twelve year old blond boy and adjusted his book under his arm. "Maybe if you settled down and studied with me sometimes, you would be in trouble less."_

_The stood defiantly back to back for a long while. Finally Malik gave in, "Are you hurt? Let's go back to our room and get you cleaned up."_

" _I'm fine. It doesn't hurt..." However, Malik ignored little Altaïr and tugged him by the sleeve back to their room._

Altaïr wanted Malik to do that again. To just know he needed help and reach out to tug him into the safety of his room and heal him. They were grown men now. They were busy with very different duties. Too busy. And every time Altaïr tried to get close, to say something, it ended in another fight. The fights were harsher earlier in the year. Now there were moments, just moments, where Malik seemed gentler. Altaïr desperately wanted to trust him. He left a note... but either Malik didn't yet see it or Malik didn't care.

Below were two men discussing the Regent. Altaïr banished his thoughts of Malik and focused back to his mission. These men served in the prison and one had a map to help him find his way so he could clean it. They murmured about the horrors and tortures done to some of the prisoners: beatings with blunt objects; strange metal contraptions imported from England, France and Germany; how the interrogator broke men by raping them first; and how the Regent watched.

As they walked away back to their families, both feeling better for having had a moment to get the shock of what they witnessed out of them in at least this supposedly private nook between buildings and the city wall, Altaïr dropped to the ground. Fire bloomed under his skin where his leg was cut and he hissed himself into silence. Pain was nothing. It could be ignored. So he ignored it and continued on after the man with the map. Like a pale shadow, Altaïr trailed after him. Feather light fingers caught the map from the back of the man's pouch. Altaïr stood still as the man continued walking. The map slipped from the pouch and remained trapped in Altaïr's claws. Altaïr turned with an irresistible smirk, tucking the map into his robe's inside pocket. Behind him he heard the man curse and fret about the loss of the map. He took slow steps away becoming invisible in the crowd.

Perhaps it was God or Allah that guided his flight to here where he would finally find information. He walked through the crowds listening to bits of stray conversations; however there seemed to be nothing more useful here. He meandered his way into the middle district to the church Malik had suggested the other day. He sat upon a bench to just relax and listen to the talk of this area. He could see one of the informants in a corner of shade by a tree. A bald assassin manifested from a group of monks to speak to the informant. Altaïr nodded with approval and let his eyes drop back to the stones at his feet.

He felt hot, the sweat making his under tunic itch. The afternoon sun seemed to bake him even through his white robes which were intended to ease such heats. He mopped his face with a hand. His ears finally picked up the Regent's name in hissed and stressed tones. A father was fretting about his son's capture and immanent punishment, unjustly. He was trying to get a friend to conspire with him to free his son. "It would be a perfect time. They will hang my son in the mason's square. The Regent will do as he usually does and make grand speeches, gloating about his power. I will do it then." The friend had more sense and told the father he was a fool for thinking it. "But he's my only son! He did nothing wrong! I am not going to let this tyrant continue." He stormed off from the friend resolved in his decision. Altaïr shook his head. _People like that need to hire people like me._

He lost track of the conversations around him a bit and only realized it when the sun was setting. He stood feeling nauseous. Maybe it was from stupidly sitting in the sun all afternoon. Oh, or maybe from missing both breakfast and lunch. He paid for some food from a stall so no one thought he was anything more than another citizen. He nibbled it not really interested in it, his thoughts straying back to Malik.

His mind busy wrapping around the conflicted thoughts and feelings about Malik, he never really noticed the people around him. He wove around them. They wove around him in a seemingly natural flow. He climbed a convenient ladder. Armed with some news at last, Altaïr hopped from roof to roof till he tiptoed across the wood planks that would get him from the building he was on to the Bureau.

As he dropped into the Bureau's souk with the bubbling fountain, he honestly thought it would be cooler. It wasn't. It was just as stiflingly hot. Cautiously he entered the Bureau, but did not see Malik. He poked around the various rooms and still no Malik to yell at him or force him to sit and be healed. He touched over the bandaged gash in his thigh which was especially burning now. In the souk, he removed weapons and armour, resolved to wash the wound again and maybe cool the annoying burning feeling. He stripped his clothes off in the safety of the souk and left them in a bacheloresque pile on the carpets.

He sucked through his teeth as he peeled the sweaty and sticky bandage from his thigh, recalling Malik's words about his poor skills in healing. As if on cue, he heard Malik unlock the door and enter the Bureau. Altaïr glanced over his shoulder at his pile of clothing. There would be no way to be dressed swiftly enough. So, he continued washing the wound with a cloth and basin of water. Malik was yet unaware Altaïr was even there, so Altaïr listened and spied through the window that seemed to house the pigeons. Malik was in an especially foul mood. He slammed an almost broken basket on the floor by the counter, pulled off his torn black robe and cursed about being under cover and useless.

Altaïr realized Malik must have had to pretend to be a helpless cripple in the market and get picked on for it. It was like rubbing salt into a wound... the wound of the lost arm. Altaïr winced for Malik. _He needs an apprentice here. He needs some kind of help. I thought all Bureau's had some help. Why leave him without?_ It bothered Altaïr that someone would dare touch Malik. He wanted to kill the bully. His nudity at the moment kept him from rushing in to demand who was responsible. He vowed to try to run some errands for Malik, to save him that embarrassment. _I have to lurk and find information anyways. This will help me look like I belong in the area doing so._ He drew his arm across his brow which was still sweating and gritted his teeth as he wiped the ugly red and swollen gash. It will make yet another ugly scar on his body to add to the growing collection.

As Malik donned a clean black robe he saw the pile of clothing and leathers and weapons on the carpets through the door to the souk. Recognizing the embroidery that was on Altaïr's tabard and Altaïr's alone, he near stomped into the souk ready to yell at him for... who knew what. He stopped in the doorway and stared instead. Altaïr glanced over his shoulder and away again, guilty maybe. He shot a hand to the wall to steady himself as his world tilted unnaturally. The bloody cloth dropped to the floor. He frowned deeply trying to breathe through this discomforting sense of disorientation.


	16. Malik's Breakthrough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OUCH!

As Malik donned a clean black robe he saw the pile of clothing and leathers and weapons on the carpets through the door to the souk. Recognizing the embroidery that was on Altaïr’s tabard and Altaïr’s alone, he near stomped into the souk ready to yell at him for... who knew what. He stopped in the doorway and stared instead. Altaïr glanced over his shoulder and away again, guilty maybe. Malik watched as Altaïr shot a hand to the wall to steady himself as his world tilted unnaturally. The bloody cloth dropped to the floor. A frown creased Altaïr’s brow deeply as he tried to breathe through this discomforting sense of disorientation. 

Malik felt dirty and scruffy from being shoved around, but light scrapes could wash easily away. Altaïr was exhibiting something that would not just wash away. Malik wondered what had happened the other night because THAT was not just a graze. Or at least it certainly isn’t now. Aggravated and infected as it was, Malik knew this needed attention. When Altaïr nearly toppled for no reason, he instinctively rushed to catch him. Altaïr’s skin was hot and fevered. 

Despite his repeated mumbles that he was fine, Malik managed to get him seated on the carpets with cushions to support his back. There were so many things Malik desperately wanted to say to Altaïr in very loud admonishing tones, but he dared not in case Altaïr fled again. Although, a fleeing naked Altaïr brought a slight smirk to his face. With salves, a knife, fresh bandages, a liquid caustic cleanser, and an elixir, Malik set to work. 

Now and then he had to stop and shove Altaïr back down, “Be still!” He scrubbed and scraped at the gash, cutting here and there to open it and push out the infection. He washed it thoroughly and deeply. His eyes darting up to Altaïr’s face which was as pale as the assassin robes. His normally light brown hair was darkened and clinging to his face with sweat. However, Altaïr never made a sound. It was like when Malik’s brother stitched his face. “Easy brother,” Malik tried to reassure him. The fast breathing gave away that he was not well. He poured the caustic fluid over the wound and could not tell the hiss of the liquid in the wound from the hiss Altaïr made fighting making a sound from the pain. 

Malik dipped his hand in the cool fountain water then pressed it onto Altaïr’s neck. The coolness brought out a sigh and Altaïr opened his golden eyes. “I am going to stitch it. Can you be still?” Altaïr simply nodded. Malik listened to the forced control in Altaïr’s breathing as he began to stitch and tug one handed at the wound. Altaïr’s muscles twitched with each tug. A fist rose and thudded into the carpet. Malik was sure that it was going to thud into his face. He did not pause till he was done stitching. Again he poured the antiseptic fluid over the wound. Again Altaïr hissed. 

Malik stepped away for a clean basin of water and a cup. He filled one then the other. Altaïr accepted the cup of water silently. Malik gently washed the wound and dried it. “This will heal faster and better for my care.” He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He opened the jar of salve and set it down. He could not apply it and hold it at the same time. He delicately dabbed the gash with the salve. His focus there he did not see the strained look on Altaïr’s face till the assassin’s throat constricted and his breathing became staggered. Malik sat back to let Altaïr recompose. _He must feel like no one cares for this small bit of care to choke him so much. But then… care has been refused him._ He already sent a pigeon to Al Mualim and to the Dai of Damascus to give them both a piece of his mind over that. 

He took advantage of the fact that Altaïr was staying still and started to dab salve on other neglected wounds. “So, what news have you found so far? Anything worthy of note?” using this to help bring Altaïr’s focus back. 

After clearing his throat, Altaïr replied shakier than expected, “I… acquired a map of the prison. And… and I learned of the tortures and cruelties that go on within.” Malik heard the confidence thankfully creep back into Altaïr’s voice as the assassin continued. “The jailor is a vile man who tortures the prisoners with metal contraptions imported from overseas, breaking them by raping them and much more. The Regent likes to watch.” 

He flinched and watched Malik apply salve to a slow healing wound along his ribs, “Hugging swords in battle is not healthy.” It was a joke Faruq used to say when a novice got caught in the ribs with a sword slice. “Go on,” prompted Malik. 

“Some man’s supposedly innocent son has been taken prisoner and will be hanged as an example in the mason’s square. I don’t yet know when. Apparently the Regent likes to take time to regale people at length before a hanging. The man is planning to foolishly try to kill the Regent himself then.” Both Malik and Altaïr shook their heads knowing how that will end. 

Malik salved the small shoulder wound that Altaïr had completely ignored and even forgot he had till the sting of the salve made him aware. Malik paused to make sure Altaïr didn’t make to hit him. When the blow never came, he continued. This was too rare an opportunity. For good measure, Malik even dabbed some salve on the slightly split bruise on Altaïr’s temple and the scrape on Altaïr’s chin. 

Malik’s hand lingered there rebelliously. His dark eyes stole the chance to look into Altaïr’s. They searched each other’s eyes longer than necessary before they both looked away. 

“Altaïr, come see me when you need healing. I won’t ever turn you away.” Malik meant more in his last words, but didn’t think Altaïr would understand. He drew back and bandaged the leg now that it had time to calm from the stitching. 

Malik headed off to get some food as Altaïr clothed himself again. When Malik returned, he insisted Altaïr swallow a spoonful of a foul elixir. That struggle nearly came to blows. “Just swallow the damned stuff! You fevered obnoxious ass!” He gave Altaïr little choice. The second Altaïr opened his mouth to yell back, in went the spoon. He retreated from the angry eagle swiftly to avoid being harmed. He knew he already pushed the limits of Altaïr’s tolerance. 

To diffuse the anger he asked, “So you have a map? Show me?” 

Altaïr pulled out the map he had pick-pocketed and set it on the counter where they could both look at it. Malik found the counter between them again and Altaïr securely hidden beneath his hood again. _I will break through your armour. I need to… for us both._ He recognized that he came close this evening. They nibbled off the same tray absently as they analyzed the map together.


	17. Altair Drugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Necessarily short.

Altaïr pulled out the map he had pick-pocketed and set it on the counter where they could both look at it. The counter provided the familiar security of that chasm between them again and Altaïr safely hid beneath his hood. He recognized that he came close this evening to breaking under Malik’s administrations. They nibbled off the same tray absently as they analyzed the map together. 

Hidden in the shadow of the hood, he listened to Malik describe the puzzling items of the map, magically understanding the squiggly codes. Altaïr envied him this gift of being able to decipher anything in writing. This was emotionally safer than having Malik touch and heal him. There was a terrifying moment back then when Altaïr thought he was going to either sob in front of someone who really didn’t care ( _“Go cry in the corner or do whatever it is you do before a mission, only do it quietly!”_ ) or he was going to blurt out so much blasphemous things about the order or what he has been experiencing when he makes his kills that killing him would really be a kindness, like the Hospitalier maybe? 

Altaïr shook his head to banish the stray distracting thoughts. He heard Malik pause, having noticed the hood shake. “Don’t tell me you actually want to try to get on the inside of this abomination they call a prison in order to make your kill, Altaïr. I agree with that father who wants to free his son. Your target will be more vulnerable at the hanging where he thinks that all his guards could protect him from an assassin of your skill.” 

Rolling with the misunderstanding, Altaïr nodded agreement. “I need more information. And need to know the layout of this mason’s square.” He waited for a retort from Malik about how he was maybe learning after all. It didn’t come. Altaïr realized he was actually learning from this humiliating and humbling experience, but he didn’t need his nosed rubbed in it. “Did you get my note?” The question came out unbidden and Altaïr wished he could swallow the words back. 

“Note?” Malik’s confusion clearly confirmed Altaïr’s assumptions. “No. You actually wrote something?” It was a tease, but Altaïr did not interpret it as such. 

He turned away with a snarl. Grabbed something off the plate and stormed into the souk to flop on the carpets, back to Malik. He heard Malik curse under his breath and roll up the map. He could not actually eat the piece of bread he had snatched. The first bite was hard to swallow around the lump of frustration in his throat. _Nothing is true… everything is permitted._

He felt very alone that moment. He discarded the bread for the pigeons to peck at. Malik was back to slamming things around in his frustration with Altaïr. Things only got quiet when he finally did find the note. Altaïr pretended to sleep. The sound of a quill scratching paper filled the next couple hours. Altaïr was almost curious to see what, but figured Malik was just doing what Malik does… taking notes, being a Dai. Malik was always busy when Altaïr came to the Bureau. He often felt like he was intruding. Sleep crept up on him. He fought it as hard as he could, especially when he realized he had been drugged. It was a losing battle. Malik had won this. And in doing so, lost a little more of Altaïr’s trust.


	18. Malik and the Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A scene in here was inspired by doubleleaf’s art on DA, but I will save the art for when I do another scene and elaborate on it so it is worthy of the shmexy art piece.

Malik was back to slamming things around in his frustration with Altaïr. Things only got quiet when he finally found the note. 

_Malik_

_I’ll practiss if you want me to_

_Find me a book to right in_

_Hide my insanity from others_

_~~Nothing is true… everything is permitted~~_

_Master tot me this superseeds the Creed_

_The fog comes again with each kill_

_I don’t know what is right or wrong_

_I am trying… really trying to live by the Creed_

_Pleez help me_

_I need you_

_I need someone I can trust_

_Someone new an assassin was here._

_I tried to save a citizen from French guards._

_Trap._

_Templar waiting…. for an assassin._

_Altaïr_

 

Malik resisted the urge to correct grammar and spelling. He was amazed by how much Altaïr had written, truth be told. He read the note many times just because Altaïr had written it. Altaïr wasn’t much for speaking either. This was more words that Malik had heard from Altaïr in several months put together, maybe even in the whole year. It was almost poetic to look at, once you could decipher the chaos of the scribbling, of course. Reading Altaïr’s writing was one of his excuses to people as to why he could read anything. 

In the back of his log book, Malik added to officially get Altaïr a journal. The assassin had agreed to do something Malik wanted. He had at first wondered why, but the rest of the note made that plain. Things were going on inside Altaïr’s head that he was too afraid to express and thought he was going mad from them. Maybe he was. Or maybe he will if he gets no safe outlet for them. 

It was blasphemy to claim something superseded the Creed. Only Allah did or God or whatever divine you held to when you went to meet it. And this is what Altaïr had been taught by Master Al Mualim? No wonder Altaïr arrogantly thought he could do whatever he had pleased. Whatever was the means to complete the mission did not matter. _Nothing was true and everything is permitted._ This is what Altaïr had said at Solomon’s Temple. It made sense now. Horrible gut wrenching sense. It also implicated Al Mualim as a traitor to the order. 

_The fog…_

When Altaïr was a novice, he was plagued by dreams and often saw odd things that came to pass. Most of that faded save for one talent. When Altaïr took a life, Altaïr had once told him that time stopped and fog came. Said that the dead and dying spoke to him there in the fog. It sounded crazy. Malik had believed him though. He had researched some of the things Altaïr learned from the dead. When they were split up and sent on solo missions, Altaïr stopped mentioning it. On their way to Solomon’s Temple, Altaïr did say something. It had been disregarded and Malik wished deeply that he had listened then instead of being jealous and angry at Altaïr. _“I wish you didn’t come. I don’t want to meet either of you in the fog.”_ Malik wondered what Altaïr was finding in the fog with each of his missions this year. Whatever it was, it was making Altaïr question… question everything. 

He had to concede that Altaïr was trying to live by the Creed. He really did improve with each mission. Someone should tell him so. Malik decided he would when Altaïr completed this mission. So much of what Altaïr had learned and lived by was anything but the Creed apparently. The note showed him begging for Malik’s help. He wondered if Altaïr felt as alone as he himself did. At least he had the trust of others. Everyone else seemed to hate Altaïr, sometimes even openly. _To refuse him healing!!!_ He made a mental note to kill that Dai on Altaïr’s behalf later. 

Altaïr wanted to trust Malik. Needed to. Malik looked over at the sleeping assassin on the carpets. _Offer trust and trust will be returned._ It was a lesson from Faruq. He missed his brother. Faruq went missing sometime during the mission of Solomon’s Temple. So Malik had lost both brothers that day. Thinking of Faruq reminded him of another lesson, _forgiveness can help bridge the largest chasms of the soul._ Malik wasn’t ready yet to really forgive Altaïr, not out loud. Not yet. Maybe soon though. Maybe when Altaïr says he’s sorry first. 

He looked over the note again. There was yet more evidence that Altaïr was improving and taking the lives of other people into consideration. He tried to save a citizen. He frowned though. Someone tipped off the Templars about an assassin in the city. They were laying traps for them, knowing somehow that they might try to save citizens. That would explain Altaïr’s recent injuries. An act of kindness caught him in a trap. It could have been any assassin though. Malik immediately scribbled in his book to recall all the assassins as they drop through the Bureau and place them in safe houses or order them out of the city. Someone was leaking information from Masyaf. It was again more proof. He wrote much in his log book on these things as he worried about the novice on his first mission here and the bald assassin he sent off to dig up information on his target. 

The sound of a quill scratching paper filled the next couple hours. Malik was sure Altaïr was asleep. Sometimes this medicine did that, but it was hard to say if it would from person to person. He put away his books and worked on the map of Acre a little longer realizing he was out of red ink. That was what he had forgotten to pick up at the market. 

Rolling up the map he put it away too and proceeded with doing some knife training in the main room. He was developing moves and techniques to suit someone with one arm. One day, he might need to fight. That day seemed to inch ever closer. He wondered who he would have to fight. The thought of sparring maybe with Altaïr thrilled him. He logged that as he stripped down to just his pants and sliced and jabbed at nothing during his private practice. 

He bathed after and rubbed salve into the scrapes and bruises as he watched Altaïr’s breathing shift from deeper sleep to fitful sleep and back. He sat down beside him and made sure all weapons were out of reach. “Altaïr?” he whispered a few times, but the usually light sleeper did not wake. He rested his hand on Altaïr’s brow, pushing the hood back a little. The fever was still there but much much less. Malik sighed with relief. It meant the medicine was working to fight the infection. He would worry less about Altaïr tomorrow now. 

“Altaïr, I am sorry for not trusting you…” If only Altaïr were awake to hear him. He stayed a long while trying to ease the fitful moments of Altaïr’s fevered sleep, wondering what Altaïr dreamed that would make him toss about and almost yell aloud. When the fever finally passed, Malik took to his own bed.

 


	19. Altair Teen Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I must thank all of you for reviewing this in progress work. I blame the artists of Deviant Art for inspiring me to buy a video game (the first I have ever bought in the 38 years of being alive), play it just to find out who these two boys are, and then to write fanfic. My husband still laments about the pairing. At least it is not cross-generational incest!
> 
> I also must thank some of you readers for pointing me to information about the other games so I can bring in those bits of info, like Adha… and maybe later Maria. That will be an interesting complication I am sure. 
> 
> You have asked for more Tibah, more young novice, more back story to our boys. It can’t happen in one chapter. Let’s start with the last. So here it is: TEEN BOYS KISSING!!!!!!!!!

“Altaïr, I am sorry for not trusting you…” If only Altaïr were awake to hear him. Malik stayed a long while trying to ease the fitful moments of Altaïr’s fevered sleep, wondering what Altaïr dreamed that would make him toss about and almost yell aloud. When the fever finally passed, Malik took to his own bed. 

Altaïr woke midmorning to a very very quiet Bureau. “Malik?” His last fading dreams were of Malik standing surrounded by fog. He sat bolt up, heart pounding, “MALIK!” It took several minutes to register where he was. Malik didn’t come. He splashed water on his face from the fountain. It was just a dream. He felt more awake and hurt a good deal less. The stitches felt annoying, but it was better than his makeshift attempt at healing. If he had been angry at Malik before, that too faded while he slept. Except… except maybe the being drugged part. In hind sight, he understood it was likely an elixir against his infection. Most of those caused drowsiness. 

He meandered about the Bureau. It became habit now to explore while Malik was away. Malik had to be away or he would surely have come running to tell Altaïr to not yell. He poked all the little pawns on the chess table. Just poked them. Then named them after assassins from the Order. He stopped that when he got half way through and realized how ridiculous that was. He studied the position of the pawns Malik had moved. Fingering his sacrificial white pawn he thought about his next move. He swapped the kings, putting the black king in place of his white one and the white one on Malik’s side of the board. Then he knocked over with a flick of his finger the white bishops and knights. He plucked a black bishop and tucked it into the inside pocket of his robes. Malik was the educated bishop to Altaïr and he wanted to keep a little of that close to him. 

After strapping on his armour and weapons he found the breakfast of eggs and cheese and sliced melons and bananas. Altaïr ate everything but the bananas. They had this weird mushy texture that just revolted him. Mix them in with gruel, fine… but sliced plain like this? Altaïr wrinkled his nose and fed them to the pigeons. “You are rats with wings, useful rats with wings but still… just rats with wings.” 

He wondered where Malik had gone. Maybe to the market? Then every muscle stiffened. Last night Malik had come home after having received a beating. Fiery anger sharpened Altaïr’s golden eyes. He was on the roof before he knew it and … stopped. Which market? Where would Malik go? Should he stalk him and make sure he was safe? Would that just anger him? Likely. Could it blow his cover as a helpless one-armed map maker? Malik would probably reprimand him for not collecting the remainder of his information and planning his kill. 

Armed with what he assumed would be Malik’s response to following him, he headed to the middle district. Malik was not in the market there. _He’d kill me if I thought he could not protect himself. But … what if…NO… he’d kill me._ Altaïr moved on to his informants, recognizing them immediately. This one was glad to see him. That was a relief. He was tired of the snide comments from spies, fellow assassins and informants who thought they were assassins. Providing a little help to this one by eliminating the two guards roaming around searching for him, Altaïr earned useful information. The informant told him of workers building something in the mason’s district on a deadline for the Regent. 

Altaïr pick-pocketed extra throwing knives and scaled a wall to a roof. He took his time today. Easy exploration was safer for his leg. Then he took a ladder down to street level from another building to avoid an archer. He wanted badly to climb to where he saw an eagle circling. He stood still and watched it, trying to imagine he had the same freedom and knowing he didn’t. The sudden shove from behind reminded him of reality. Altaïr reacted without thought. He spun on his heel. His wrist blade thrust in the chest of the attacker. The drunkard sagged to the ground. People screamed around him. A guard let out a cry of surprise. Altaïr bolted from the scene. In a cool dark alley he leaned against a wall thudding the back of his head against it. He killed an innocent. Guilt ate at him for a couple hours as he stayed hidden, waiting for the panic to die down. In that time he managed to justify his action no less than nineteen different ways. 

Later, from the relative safety of a roof, he picked off aggressors who harassed citizens. He was not going to fall for that trap a second time. He was also not going to just let a woman or monk be shoved around for nothing. The monks found him later as he stepped smoothly in among them. They whispered their gratitude and that he could count on them to always hide him among their brothers. As he slipped from their midst it was with an exchange of blessings and prayers. 

Altaïr had almost all the information he needed, just not the actual day of the hanging. That would be resolved by lurking about the construction site, which would serve the secondary purpose of gaining him familiarity with his kill territory. He walked all around the perimeter of the quarry. Mentally mapped the escape routes or near lack thereof. He measured with his eyes the distances. Then he boldly dropped onto the platform and walked its length a few times. This would not have been possible if people were here. No one was. That would necessitate returning another day when it was not some holy day where the citizens were busy in their holy buildings. 

He ducked out of sight of a roof archer on his way back to the Bureau. Noting that there was an unusual amount at the moment, he crept into a roof souk and relaxed in the shade waiting for them to go away. There he cat-napped a bit too, reviewing what transpired between him and Malik the day before. 

Altaïr could not banish the thought of Malik’s hands on him once the thought popped up in his mind. The darkly tanned hand contrasted against the pale almost white chest. Malik’s eyes had not changed either, they were deep brown, like coffee without milk. Altaïr swallowed and squirmed uncomfortably in the souk for a better position to sit. The heat was rising, certainly, even in this shaded place.

 They used to have a good relationship when they were younger. 

_In the dark and secret of their room, Malik would explore Altaïr’s body as he compared anatomy to what was in the opened book beside him. “Be still Altaïr.” It was hard to be still. Some touches caused him to struggle not to giggle like a child. At twelve and fourteen, they liked to believe they were no longer children. Malik had already moved past the awkward stage that Altaïr had just begun.  
_

_A small squeak escaped Altaïr as he face turned red. “What did you do? What did you do to me? Why is it doing THAT!? It never did that before!”  
_

_Malik only chuckled, “Stop squirming. It is supposed to do that. It means you are no longer a baby and almost a man. Unless you want to be a baby, you can go cry in the corner and it will go away.”  
_

_Altaïr glared back. But only for a moment as his curiosity was too strong. Malik had already moved on to legs and feet comparing as Altaïr looked down at his friend kneeling on the floor. “What are you supposed to do when it does this then?”  
_

_Malik sighed and got up to lock the door. “I’ll show you, but don’t you tell anyone. This is between just you and me. Can I trust you?”  
_

_Curiosity and excitement totally piqued now, Altaïr nodded eagerly.  
_

_Several nights here and there were like this. Malik and Altaïr exploring their own and sometimes each other’s anatomy. They did things like measure and compare their parts. They ‘sword duelled’ with them. Sometimes late night squabbles turned into late night wrestling, that then turned into late night exhausting their urges. Sometimes they snuck out to watch the goats mating and talk about what it might be like to take a woman. They had never in their early teens engaged in anything one would call intercourse, but it came darned close sometimes.  
_

_One night when Malik was healing scrapes Altaïr earned from a fight to just ‘prove he was better,’ he touched Altaïr’s face and their eyes met for a long while. Their exploring had lasted almost two years by then and emotions were starting to get mixed up in it. Altaïr had been moody and distant for a few months. Malik had worried and wanted to know what bothered him and made him fight so much. They could say nothing in the growing silence as they searched for meaning and understanding in each other’s eyes. “I trust you,” Altaïr whispered and closed his eyes. It was as close as one might come to saying love for Altaïr. Malik at sixteen knew somehow this was wrong, this wanting, but how could Allah forbid this much affection and forsake this much trust? Altaïr felt warm lips press against his.  
_

The memory made Altaïr jump awake and touch his lips with his fingers, heat burning his cheeks and sinking into his groin. He shook the ruffled awkwardness from his body and almost took flight as an archer’s footfalls were heard approaching. Altaïr’s eyes grew wide wondering if he had made noises in his sleep to draw attention. He debated making a kill, but there were too many archers close by. He’d never get away without becoming a pin cushion for a quiver worth of arrows. With swift fingers he removed his chest straps that helped the obvious knife to his back and shoved the whole harness under a pillow. The archer was only a few steps away. He flopped face down on the pillows, hood well covering his head and face. The archer was inches away. Altaïr rutted noisily into the pillows making loud embarrassing sexual noises. The archer’s footsteps hesitated, almost stumbled. The tip of the bow lifted the souk’s curtain and dropped instantly again. Fast steps away from the souk told Altaïr that the archer was suitably shocked, along with hearing the archer tell another about the poor monk thrusting into pillows secretly in the souk and how Christians are crazy to deny men a woman. Altaïr might even have continued his thrusting just to please himself if he was not nearly overcome by laughter that he smothered with a pillow. He could picture the archer’s eyes bugging out and regretted not looking to see that expression.


	20. Malik: A Boy's Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have asked for more Tibah and more young novice, so enjoy! I honestly was not going to include the little tyke... but since you all adore him so much... he’s in here.

He could picture to archer’s eyes bugging out and regretted not looking to see that expression. Altaïr’s day was going better after all. Malik’s too for that matter. 

Malik always tried to make the most of his outings. He walked invisibly among the crowds of people in the early morning. His first stop was the mosque for dawn prayers. While he was not really a religious man, he did have an image to uphold here as a citizen and as a scholar. He walked to the synagogue after to speak with the rabbi about concerned citizens. Maybe there could be news from him to help fill in the gaps. Nothing had come to the rabbi’s attention, but he would speak with his people and ensure they are well. A trip then to the local church on his way to the market of the rich district revealed the celebration of some saint or other. He noted which one and watched some of the service. Christians were so extravagant sometimes. Malik preferred the Jews who tended to celebrate around a feast instead. 

His casual morning walk brought him at last to the busy market. He looked around warily to see if the usual thugs were about. He needed to replenish the supplies of throwing knives in the supply box. He grinned as he managed to slip them from a few thugs even one handed. _You only need one hand to swipe a little knife._ Or to swipe a bit of information from someone’s pocket. He practiced that as well when the opportunity arose with information he could pass to the bald assassin for that one’s mission. There was a little thrill in these accomplishments that reminded him he had not lost his touch. 

It was with good humour that he approached the apothecary stall. Tibah was not there, but her father and one of her other sisters. That was in a way a relief. He exchanged greetings with the man and asked how his family was, how the wife was handling her pregnancy. That news was a little distressing. She was having a difficult pregnancy. Tibah arrived soon with breakfast for her family at the stall. Her brother trailed after her trying to look menacing. To the average citizen, the young man probably did. To Malik, well, Malik almost had the urge to correct things and teach him other places to look and who to be more wary of. 

“Hello rafiq!” her cheery voice did not hold the plotting he always sensed when she had visited the Bureau. “We are ready to prepare the ink you require.” She offered him some sliced mango which he accepted before realizing the message that immediately popped into Tibah’s father’s eyes. She smiled prettily as she too nibbled. After wiping her hands clean she got to work on making the red ink. 

Malik felt like the noon sun had risen to bake him in his black robes. It was barely mid-morning. He cleared his throat awkwardly. This girl was nice, pretty, for someone only fifteen. But Malik was not at all interested in a wife. _Is that what she is planning? Will she ask that in exchange for her gifts? How foolish of me!_

He paid for his ink and melted into the crowd as quickly as he could. _Would a wife be such a bad idea?_ He thought how much easier it would be to manage some things with an extra pair of hands. How it would not be so lonely. He wondered if he should petition Al Mualim for it. Then he remembered the doubts he had of Al Mualim. And the way Al Mualim sometimes forcibly arranged marriages. 

Altaïr had been forced to take Adha. But she was stolen away before they could be wed. And about 10 maybe 12 months ago, Altaïr was put with another woman who ran away. She was a smart one and as venomous as he himself could be. He felt she was suitable for Altaïr and would humble him since he could not be there to do so. Altaïr had no luck with women. They never stayed. It was just as well. Malik didn’t want Al Mualim planning how to breed him like he was with Altaïr. _We are not livestock to stud and breed for the best. And really... is Altaïr the best?_ It was mocking. Altaïr was the best. Malik alone could defeat him in a sword duel. One on one, Altaïr was a force to be wary of. Malik’s mind was plagued by thoughts of Altaïr all the way to the Bureau. 

As he reached the Bureau and walked through the little outside garden to his door, someone had lingered on the bench waiting. The small boy swung his legs scissor-like while seated. His grey green eyes sparkled when he saw Malik. “I found you! All on my own! Safety and peace rafiq.” 

It was good to see that boy that Altaïr had saved looking so well. He was dressed in grey and tan clothing, the trainee clothes of the Order. Although, he sported the same green scarf as before. Kadar was much the same. When Kadar had gotten lost in the kingdom from his horse riding trainer and his horse, an assassin found him hiding from a Templar in old laundry, under a woollen blanket. After the Templar was dispatched and Kadar brought safely back home, Kadar kept the blanket he hid under in his bed for several years. This boy will likely do the same with the green scarf. “What brings you here, novice?” 

As they entered, the boy answered, “I am on a mission!” 

“Are you now? Come inside then and tell me of your mission.” Malik unlocked and opened the door inviting the boy within. 

The boy could hardly stop bouncing with his glee and success thus far. “The first part of my mission was to find you, on my own. I have a map... My mentor said you made it!” He dug it crumpled from his pocket to show it off. “I was not allowed to be on any roofs, not even to peak if I got lost.” 

“And? Did you? How would we know if you did or did not?” Malik tested the boy as he put his ink on the counter and retrieved his map of Acre to work on. 

“No! No way, rafiq. I did not! I would never break the rules. How could I ever be trusted if I don’t do as I am told for my missions? I was told to stay off the roofs, maybe they are full of archers and it was to protect me. I would never lie to any of the Brothers of the Order.” He stood on his toes to see the map. “Ooooo... what map is that?” 

Malik could not help but smile, this boy was infectiously joyful to have. “This is the city of Acre. It is west of here. Novice? Your mission?”he prodded. 

“Oh right! My mission. I was told that I was not permitted to leave here till I met with you and earned an eagle feather for my mission.” He looked hopefully at him with such large eyes and Malik was sure this boy knew how to charm people to get what he needed and wanted. 

“Do you know what you are asking for? The eagle feathers are hard to come by and need to be earned with tasks. They are given only to an assassin who has learned everything he can about his mark and is ready for his kill.” He was surprised by the boy’s request, and yet took it very seriously. 

The boy was serious too. “I know. I am on an assassination mission for my mentor. There is a dog in the area destroying his garden. It belongs to someone. We are certain. My mission is to assassinate the dog.” He rocked back onto his heels. “It is a menace.” 

“What do you know of your target? Who is its owner? What is its route? Where is the best place to take out your target?” These were all the same questions he would ask any novice on a first assassination mission, whether it be for just a dog or a human menace. 

The boy’s head dropped and his shoulders sagged. “I don’t know,” he confessed dejectedly. 

“Then, young novice, I cannot grant you permission to make your kill. You must return to me with the answers, know everything you can of your target. Only then will you earn the feather.” The boy looked up at him pleadingly. “This is the way of the Creed. You must be absolutely sure of your target so you do not accidentally kill the wrong one, or endanger others... or lead them back to the Brotherhood. Live by the Creed. Understand?” 

The nodded sadly. “So, I have to go back and tell my mentor this?” 

“Yes. Return to him with what I have told you. He will understand,” he reassured the boy. This was the process. The boy was likely so enamoured with Altaïr that the mentor had to cave in and give the boy something of an assassin’s training and not just that of an informant. He gave the boy some lunch and explained the role of the Bureau and the responsibility of the Dai and the rafiqs. Then he explained about the informants and where the boy can find one in his area to help him gain information. The boy was sent off wiser. Malik expected he would see him again soon. He logged the assassination assignment in the book with all the others and slid in a very fine eagle feather. He will show the boy how serious he took this, enough to log it. That will boost him. Only then did he have a very good laugh over it all.


End file.
